#Smoke Tree Villa

[upsidedownwithsteve]

Steve Harrington x fem!reader [14K] PART ONE OF TWO old money steve, an infatuated waitress, no labels, a disaster waiting to happen. some smut, some jealousy and too many mentions of monaco. 18+

And, baby, for you I would fall from grace

He came into the dining room of the club one Saturday afternoon. Sunkissed, tall, broad, stubble on his jaw and a gold chain glinting from the collar of his white shirt. He had a navy sweater draped over his shoulders, expensive sunglasses in his shirt's front pocket, an unassuming looking leather strapped watch on his wrist - but you’d learned well before then how to tell the difference between new money and old money.   

And Steve Harrington was old, old money. 

The watch cost more than your car and a year's rent on your apartment. Fuck, it cost more than you’d probably ever make working behind the bar of Hawkins’ country club. It cost more than the short black dress you were made to wear, the one that cinched you in at the waist and flared out over your thighs. It shone more than the gold plated name badge that was pinned on your chest, making your plunging neckline even more obvious. It cost more than the black heels that were part of your uniform, more than the five dollar balm that made your lips glossy and peach coloured. 

But still, Steve Harrington and his old, old money noticed you. 

—————

The restaurant was full, the bar even busier, the smoking lounge that sat through the double doors stuffed with leather chairs, studded couches, velvet footstools and table lined with cigars in wooden boxes. The full place smelled like bourbon and smoke, expensive cologne, perfume that cost even more. 

The Lake House country club was Hawkins’ finest institute, an old Manor House that was built on the shore of Lovers Lake, across the water from where teens liked to lurk in their cars and between tree trunks. The Lake House was where the town's elite came to dine, to drink, to lounge and talk. There were brunches with champagne and whisky, afternoon tea with ladies who wore diamonds and pearls, dinners with wine from 1802 and business meetings on the golfing green. Money poured from the club and filled the cracks in the old bricks, men with their daddy’s money bringing in their daughters, their sons, their wives. And when the family drove home in their Bentley, girlfriend’s arrived in red bottomed shoes, perching on laps in the smoking lounge like it was their jobs. 

Maybe it was. You weren’t supposed to ask. 

Your job was to stay behind the bar, a huge mahogany thing that took up most of the back wall. Everything was dark wood and lined with green velvet, the bar stools suede and gold studded, the bottles of alcohol on the glass shelves nothing less than a month's paycheck each. Martini glasses glittered, whisky was in the air like car fumes and the lime you were cutting into wheels was making the cut on your finger pulse.  

He walked in then, into the busy room like he owned it. The Harringtons were certainly wealthy enough to do so, but Michael Harrington and his wife simply liked to dine at the club on Sundays, take up on the tennis courts midweek and finish the day at the spa with a massage each. 

Six hundred dollars a session to hire out the court, four hundred dollar scotch, three hundred dollar steaks (eighty dollars more for the potato dauphinoise), five hundred dollars for a couples massage. Oh, and a one hundred dollar tip for the fucker unfortunate enough to have to deal with them. 

In cash, of course. 

But their son? Steve Harrington moved out of Hawkins long before anyone could work out if he’d grow up to be as cold as his father. Away from small towns, rumour had it he went to New York, an apartment in Manhattan, a job on Wall Street where he started at the bottom and worked his way up on luck, expensive vodka and daddy’s money. But then again, others said he spent his summers in Europe, talks of Italian villas, vineyards in Tuscany, selling yachts to the elite in Cannes, spending his time trading money through casinos, long months in Monaco during the spring. 

Seeing him back in Hawkins was unusual, uncommon, a goddamn rarity - but there he was, letting himself drop into the barstool in front of you like a Greek god etched from marble so expensive that you could barely afford to look at it. He sat with a friend, another twenty something that looked more man than boy because of their tailored trousers, crisp shirts, linen and cashmere and gold on their wrists, round their necks, family rings on their hands. 

Steve Harrington didn’t click his fingers at you like other members of the club did when they demanded to be served, but he did rap two knuckles against the bar top, a gold band on his middle finger hitting the wood. He had his shirt sleeves rolled up, careful and cuffed just below his elbows, the top three buttons undone to show off tanned skin and a smattering of chest hair. More gold, a thin chain settling in the dip of his throat, stubble along his jaw that looked like it was there deliberately, not because he’d forgotten to shave. 

You held your breath when you approached. You’d never served the youngest Harrington before - fuck, you’d never seen him here - but you knew who he was and the reputation dripped from him. 

Old money, older estates, acres of land, shares in companies that were so ridiculously rich you didn’t know what they were for. Fast cars, scandals in Europe, yachts with his name on it.  

Stomach in knots, you straightened up, smoothed down then front of your dress and put on the same smile you used for all the club members. “Gentlemen,” you greeted, “what can I get you both?”

Steve looked at you but his friend didn’t, his back to you as he surveyed the room, mumbling comments about the lack of skirt that showed up this early in the afternoon. You recognised him, a regular in the later evenings, Jonathan Byers, a fiend for a good cigar, an even bigger fan of the girls that held the poker events on weekends. 

“Two Macallans,” Steve told you, already fishing out a money clip from his trouser pocket. The clip was gold, engraved with his initials: SMH. “Twenty year reserve, no ice.”

He really looked at you then, thumbing through one hundred dollar bills, eyes raking up and down your frame as you stood and listened diligently. Even when you turned to pull the bottle of scotch off the top shelf, you could feel him watching, one eyebrow quirked, full lips parted just a little, the top of his tongue peeking from between. Steve looked interested, intrigued. Maybe just a little less bored than before. 

You kept your head down, polishing the tumblers before you poured, a three finger amount of the dark amber liquid and the smell of fire and smoke filled your nose. You’d watched enough men sit around the bar and swirl their drinks under the nostrils, waffling about notes of chocolate and spice before they sipped. It all smelled the same, no matter what price was on the label, like car fuel and burning. Steve downed the drink in one when you handed it to him, like he wasn’t swallowing liquid fire that cost him more than you’d make in a week. 

You watched as his throat bobbed, his lips coming away from the rim of the glass a little glossy, how he licked over his bottom one to catch any alcohol that lingered. Then he grinned, all perfect teeth and charm before he passed you six hundred dollars in notes. 

You nodded your thanks and went to the cash register, smiling what you hoped was politely as you tried to hand him back his change. Ninety dollars, pressed neatly in a pile of twenties and tens. The boy waved you off, still paying a lot of attention to the bare skin along your neckline, gaze running up the column of your throat. His eyes found yours when he finally spoke and god, they were the same colour as the scotch he just shotted.  

“Keep the change, honey.” Steve smiled again, a smug thing that made you aware of how warm your cheeks were. Then he slid on a pair of sunglasses he took from his shirt pocket and pushed his hair back with a hand, nudging his friend to drink up before they both slid off the stools. “Just make sure it goes in your own pocket, okay?”

You gaped at him. The Lake House’s policy when it came to tips - no matter how generous - was for them to be placed in a jar in the back office, ready to be split between staff, however hard individuals had worked, or not worked, that shift. 

The money burnt your fingers. “Um, that’s very generous but I can’t—”

Steve lifted a navy sweater he’d draped on the back of his chair, crushing the soft fabric with one hand. He used the other to reach out, plucking the bills from your fingers so he could fold them all together. His gaze met yours when he leaned back over the bar, unblinking, knuckles grazing the bare skin above your chest when he tucked the money into the neckline of your dress. It stayed there, hidden and you had to snap your jaw shut when Steve grinned at you before he pulled away. 

He raised a finger to his lips, like you were sharing a secret and not a sackable offence and his friend snorted, like he’d seen it all before. Maybe he had. 

“See you next time, honey,” Steve drawled, fishing keys out of his pocket. The silver logo of BMW glinted in the low lighting. “Thanks for the drinks.”

That was the first time you met Steve Harrington. 

Just to touch your face

The next time, he was with a group of people in the smoking lounge, all of them loud, most of them dirty rich and he had a girl on his lap. A waifish thing, pretty and delicate with a ruby pendant that settled in the dip of her chest. She held a martini glass aloft, one that you had to refill and you cursed The Lake House and its rules as your heels taptaptapped across the marble tiles. The hem of your dress swished across your thighs, your hand held a gold tray and the fresh martini swirled in its glass atop it, a well practised movement that made sure none of it spilled. The olive inside tumbled around gin and vermouth. 

Inside of the lounge, smoke billowed. Cigars and cigarettes poised between fingertips, hanging from lips that couldn’t help but spill secrets about their dirty businesses, the people they slept with before, the people they’d bed tonight. Nobody moved out of your way as you squeezed past tables and between the low sofas, leather and velvet brushing the backs of your thighs until you were able to present Steve Harrington’s lap warmer with her new drink. 

She took it from your tray, replaced it with her empty glass and said nothing. It was her hand on Steve’s chest that caused him to look away from the men he was talking with, a hushed sounding discussion about money in Monaco, about the company and its takings for that summer. He frowned at the girl and her pawing until he caught sight of you, his lips lifting in a smile that seemed more dangerous than welcoming. 

You smiled back, polite to a fault, throat going dry when you watched Steve’s gaze drop to that bare expanse of skin above your neckline. It wasn’t obscene, it wasn’t even suggestive. In fact, there was barely any amount of cleavage on show at all per the clubs rules but Steve was fixated on a freckle below your collarbone and the feel of his eyes on you made you fidget. 

You tucked the tray under one arm and tried not to shuffle on the spot. “Can I get you anything, sir?”

There was something in Steve’s reaction to your question. Maybe it was the ‘sir,’ the way you tipped your head towards him when you said it, soft and gentle and pretty. He knew you had to call all the members of the club such niceties but Steve’s eyes flashed and his lips parted, the hand he had on the arm of the sofa curling around the leather a little tighter. 

“A Macallan,” he asked, just like the first time. “No—”

“No ice,” you finished for him, nodding. “I’ll bring that right over.”

You blew out a breath when you turned, heels clicking on the marble as you made your way back to the bar. The lights were dimmed throughout the club in the evening, wall sconces letting out a warm glow, the huge fireplace in the main lounge roaring, popping and cracking with wooden logs. The whole place smelled like pine, like cedar and smoke and expensive leather. Women laughed softly, hanging off their husbands arms, dripping in pearls, in jewels, in false pretences. You smiled nicely at passing club members as you poured Steve’s drink, hands a little shaky from you out down to missing your lunch break, not excitement.

Definitely not nerves. 

You placed the chilled glass back on the tray, amber liquid shining inside the crystal, and made your way to the smoking lounge. Steve was alone when you returned, his lap empty, the girl gone. Not just from his lap, but from the room entirely. You scanned the lounge, expecting to see her on her way back, maybe with a complaint about the drink you made her, just to make you feel small but no - she’d been removed. Your heart skipped, an awful stuttering feeling that you didn’t want to feel. Lowering the tray, you offered Steve his drink, gaze cast down as you felt his on you the entire time. Steve leaned up, too close, taking his drink and smiling at you. 

You were just about to leave when:

“Why don’t you join me?”

The rest of the room was as loud as it was before, music under voices, laughter mixed with a saxophone record, conversations in the smoke. But Steve’s voice rang out almost too clearly from amongst it all. Still, you blinked at him, lips parting in surprise. “Sorry?”

Steve nodded at the seat next to him as he sank back into the couch, an arm thrown over the back of it as he took a sip of his scotch. The watch on his wrist caught the low light as he ripped the glass against his lips, cheeks flushed from the log burner. 

He was dressed in what you assumed he’d deem a little more casual than the last time you saw him. A black silk shirt, short sleeved and with the top few buttons undone again. No visible label, no ostentatious brand name on the chest but you knew well enough by then to know that just meant it was even more expensive. Black trousers, tailored for him and a pair of black boots with a sharp toe. His hair was less styled, maybe from the way his lost friend had been running her fingers through it earlier. Strands of it fell into his eyes and you swallowed hard when you realised you were staring. 

“Take a seat,” Steve asked again, lips curling up in amusement at your flustered expression. 

You blinked at him before you remembered to stand back up straight, tucking the tray back under your arm and hoping that none of the club's managerial staff were lingering nearby. You’d already spent too long away from the bar. “I, um, I can’t. I’m sorry,” you pressed your lips together and tried not to look too regretful. “I'm working.”

Steve snorted, a sound that should’ve been more unattractive than it was but it only made you want to hear what he had to say. He took another pull of his drink, barely wincing when the burn of it trickled down his throat. You did the maths in your head, wondering how it felt to be swallowing seventy dollar sips. He raised his brows and shrugged, looking around theatrically.

“And?” The boy smiled, equal parts pretty and smug. 

You were a little flustered, both at how nice he looked when he smiled and how bold he was being. You opened and closed your lips before parting them again, another polite smile there. “I need to get back to the bar,” you explained. “I’ll get into tr—”

“Trouble?” Steve finished. He shook his head and grinned, a megawatt thing that made you understand that, yes, all the rumours were true. That the famed Harrington Charm was very much a thing. But fuck, his father didn’t smile at you like that. In fact, he didn’t smile at all. “Oh, honey. No one gets in trouble unless I say so. Worried Frederick is gonna fire you?”

Steve dropped the name of your manager like they were friends. They probably were. He looked at you expectantly over the rim of his glass as he took another sip, licking the liquid from his lips. You wondered if he tasted as expensive as his liquor choices. 

You nodded, shrugging, grasping for a reason to say no to this boy - this man. The line at the bar was growing, annoyed looking men clicking their fingers at a flustered looking new girl who was trying to pour champagne into a wine glass. Guilt gnawed at your stomach. 

“He won’t fire you,” Steve assured. He patted the leather next to him, gold ring glinting in the warm light. “C’mon. Sit. I want to talk to you.”

You couldn’t help yourself. 

“Do you always get what you want?” You said it quietly, watching Steve’s lips curl into a grin when he heard. 

Another smile, mega watt, just for you. He tipped his head back and laughed, a pretty sounding thing that made the muscles down his neck stand out, chin tilted up to the gold leafed ceiling. 

“Yeah,” he told you, eyes dancing, cheeks flushed from the fire, the lights, the scotch. “I do.” 

You shouldn’t have done it. You weren’t allowed. There were strict rules about staff mingling with club members - fuck, it was written in red ink on your contract. You were too used to some of the clientele pushing the limits, trying to soften your boundaries with wads of cash, talks of a private plane to some European city where their wife didn’t like to visit. Older men, rich men, business men, family men. All looking for someone young and easily led and agreeable to have fun with between meetings and luncheons, someone to light their cigar and top up their drink for them. They liked to look at you like something to eat up, to chew up, to spit out when they were done and Frederick inevitably hired someone new and younger and prettier. 

You’d seen it happen before. Girls sucked into the lifestyle they could never have, coming into work with new shoes, red bottomed heels with their uniform dress, a Chanel lipstick in their purse, a Porsche waiting outside for them after their shift finished and in the end, a scorned wife in the dining room ready to throw a drink over them. 

You’d seen it all.  

But Steve Harrington was looking at you with so much intrigue. A pretty smile behind his tiny glass of three hundred dollar scotch, messy hair, bright eyes, that black silk shirt that looked easy to slip your fingers into. He was younger, more subtle with it all but the easy confidence in which he spoke to you had you squeezing your thighs together and wondering if your chest would stop feeling as tight. 

It didn’t. 

You sat down. 

Steve grinned, victorious and he moved against the leather sofa so he was sitting back against the arm, turned to face you fully. He brought one foot up to rest on his other knee, hand curling around his leg, and from there you could see the tiny brand on his loafers, a little gold insignia. Yves Saint Laurent. You wanted to laugh. His shoes cost more than you made in three months. 

“What’s your name?” Steve asked. 

You wore the same gold plated pin that every other staff member wore. The Lake House engraved on it along with the logo, a stupidly elaborate key. Underneath, your name was printed in bold letters, but Steve wasn’t looking at it. He was watching your face, brows raised expectantly. He wanted to hear you speak. 

Pressing the tray to your lap, you lingered on the edge of the couch, eyes darting around for your boss, or worse, the girl this man was last seen with. Was it his girlfriend? Did he have a wife? You weren’t sure how old Steve was, but you didn’t see a ring on his wedding finger, not that that meant much in a place like The Lake House. Wedding bands frequented coat pockets more than fingers here. 

You swallowed and told him your name, your voice cracking with nerves that you tried to laugh at but that came out wobbly too. Your shyness made Steve grin a little wider, his wide hands curling around his ankle as he lounged back against the cushions and appraised you with a look that shouldn’t have been proper for public. 

He repeated your name back to you and it sounded so much sweeter on his lips. He said it slowly, a low murmur that made your tummy clench, like he was tasting it out, tasting it on his tongue. “That’s a pretty name,” he said. “I’m Steve Harr—”

You laughed, sharp and surprised. “I know who you are, Mr Harrington.”

If Steve was shocked by his news, he didn’t show it. It was your job to know the members, after all. Their names, their families, the work they were in. Their favourite table, their favourite drink, the time they liked to dine, their preferred slot for playing a round of golf. So instead he smiled and nodded before holding out a hand. 

You took it and he squeezed gently, shaking it politely as he said, “well then, please call me Steve.”

You nodded, wondering if that was allowed. None of this was allowed. Fuck, you glanced around again, eyes a little wide, wondering if Frederick was in his office, god forbid, watching you through the cameras. Steve must’ve noticed this, because he swallowed down the last of his scotch and set the empty glass on the table. You’d have to move it soon. 

“Relax.” His arm stretched out along the back of the sofa, tanned and corded with lithe muscles. His fingers tapped a beat on the leather, close to your shoulder. “Nothing bad is going to happen.”

You laughed, a shaky, ironic sounding thing. You forgot who you were talking to, just for a second, your heart pumping. “That’s easy for you to say.” You swore then, a pained noise, because Frederick was marching out of his office, three piece suit right across his shoulders and his pocket watch swinging.

He was coming over. 

You made a noise similar to a squeak, drinks tray clutched to your chest and you made to jump up but Steve’s hand stopped you. Warm and wide, it took up most of your knee and you blinked at it in surprise. He didn’t move it when you stared at him and he still didn’t move it when Frederick approached, red faced and nostrils flaring. 

“Mr Harrington, sir, it’s so good to see you back at The Lake House,” your manager began, his voice a well practised purr. There was a slight British tinge to his voice, one you knew was fake. “Please take my sincerest apologies for you being bothered. I’ll be asking my staff to join me in the office for a much required conversation about professional boundaries. Please excu—”

“Fred,” Steve greeted warmly, his smile much more forced than the one he’d been giving you. Frederick twitched. “Nice to see you.” Steve’s hand still covered your lower thigh and squeezed slightly, in what you thought was supposed to be reassuring but his thumb on the inside of your knee made you too warm. “No need for anything like that, actually.” Steve said your name, wrapped it around his tongue and licked over his lip like he was savouring it before he continued. “—was invited to sit with me.”

The clubhouse manager hardened, a flash of annoyance going over his features and his neck grew more red in anger. He smiled through it, a tight lipped thing that Steve grinned at and you had to duck your head, panic ripping through your body. You couldn’t lose this job. 

“How nice,” Frederick finally ground out. He clasped his hands in front of him and glared at you from the sides of his eyes before he smiled at Steve again. “I hope my staff is doing her utmost to keep you pleased, Mr Harrington. Do not hesitate to ask for anything.”

You hated the way he said it, like any club member could get anything they wanted from you, just because they had enough money to be here. It made you square off your shoulders and lift your head, emboldened. Steve was watching you, that look of intrigue on his face once more. He nodded at Frederick and then gestured to his empty glass. 

“Actually, Freddie, could you be a pal and fetch me another?” His tone was too polite, bordering on patronising. Frederick’s tight smile grew tighter, a thin line that stretched across his ruddy face until you feared it might split. “A Macallan, no ice. Anything for the lady?” Steve turned to you and winked, a subtle thing that let you know everything was under control. 

But you knew better than to rock the boat, better than that, you knew not to drink on the job. Especially from the club’s bar. The only thing you could afford from behind the mahogany counter was the one thing Steve always refused. Ice. 

“No, thank you,” you murmured. 

Your manager had no choice but to walk away, his back rigid, proverbial steam coming out from his ears. You watched him snap Steve’s order at a poor, unsuspecting barman who then brought it back over on another shiny tray. He raised his brows at you when Steve thanked him for it and you shrugged, not knowing what was going on either. 

When he left, Steve turned back to you, leaning back into the sofa. He looked more tanned that the last time you’d seen him. Maybe it was the dim lighting, the warm glow from the sconces along the walls, the amber coloured shade on the lamp beside him. Maybe he’d just been back to Italy. 

Monaco. France. Spain. 

He took a sip, eyes dancing over you and when he brought the drink back down to rest on his knee, he spoke. “Have you worked here long?”

It took you a second to realise he was speaking to you again, his voice lower and softer than it had been with your boss. You noticed Steve has a habit of direct eye contact, always looking right into your own eyes as he spoke. It was a little jarring, the confidence, that bold type of charm that must come with always getting what you want. 

“Uh, yeah,” you scrunched your nose, trying to remember months and years. “Three years now, or close enough.”

“I should’ve come back sooner,” Steve quipped back, his smile easy, his eyes roaming over you. His ring tapped against his glass of scotch and you didn’t know what to do. Was he flirting with you? “Do you live in town?”

“Couple miles out, smaller place near Sugar Creek.” You weren’t sure why you were telling him this. 

“Yeah, I know it,” Steve replied. “Makes sense, why I hadn’t seen you around before. Did you go to school ‘round here?”

You felt like you were being interviewed. A handsome, rich man asking the questions, sitting easy in his throne and you had an awful, awful urge to please him with your answers. To do good. To be praised. 

“I went to St. Mary’s High in Green Bay,” you swallowed, your tongue feeling too big for you mouth. Nerves bubbled in your stomach. “Then I was supposed to move to California— Berkeley.” You winced, remembering. 

Steve looked surprised, eyebrows raised, nodding. “What was your major?”

“Social law.”

Steve hummed. “Smart girl.” There it was. That praise. You tingled with it. “What happened?”

You heard the words he didn’t say, the unasked question. ‘Why aren’t you there? Why are you here? Wearing that silly little dress and heels that hurt your feet and that fake, fake smile that makes your cheeks hurt so much you want to scream into your pillow when you get home every night?’

You pondered over what to say. How truthful to be. How blunt, how ugly and honest. Shit, you could’ve said. Family, parents, money, bad luck, worse circumstances. Housing, a broken down car, an apartment that fell through at the last minute, a scholarship that didn’t happen, an aunt that got sick, a mom who didn’t like to let go. 

Instead you smiled politely and said: “life.” 

Steve gave you a wry smile in return, one that told you he could see through it all and he knew exactly what you wanted to say. Like he knew you weren’t allowed to and you were playing by the rules. Frederick was at the bar, staring at your back until you felt your bones crunch with the weight of it. 

Steve finished his drink, slid his glass onto the table and ran a hand through his hair. “It was nice to talk to you,” he said simply. He took your hand, not to shake it like last time, no. Instead he held it for a beat or two, and when he took his away, neatly folded bills were left between your fingers. They burned. 

“For the table service,” he said as a way of explaining. You didn’t know if he meant the drink or you. “I’ll see you next time, honey.”

And then he left. You watched him saunter through the bar, nodding and smiling at people who greeted him, taking his jacket from someone at the door and then he was gone. 

That was the second time you met Steve Harrington. 

If you walk away, I'd beg you on my knees to stay

A week later you were clocking into work with the intention of heading to the staff locker rooms, ready to wrestle yourself into that black dress the club called a uniform. It was early afternoon on a Wednesday and The Lake House was quiet, a few greying women you knew to be part of the book club were sat having tea by a window, a group of men leaving the gym, sweat barely there, but the towels over their shoulders had designer logos stitched in the corners. 

Frederick found you with your heels in your hand, a look of disgust on your face as you kicked off your sneakers. He wasn’t even supposed to be in the girls locker room, but he shook his head at you and took the stilettos from your hand. 

“No,” he looked irritated, as if you should’ve known better. “You’re on the green today.”

You screwed up your nose at him. You were never on the green and you told him as such. “The schedule has me in the bar all day.”

Frederick huffed as if such questions were an inconvenience to him. He ducked, rooting around in your locker as his shoulder bumped your knee and he came back with the uniform you hardly had to wear. A white tennis skirt, bordering on too short with pleats that made the men tip well, even as their wives glared. A forest green sweater to match, the same colour as the club logo, white sneakers that were brand new from never being used. 

“Special request,” your boss told you in lieu of a real explanation. “Get dressed, they’re waiting. Hurry.”

You gaped at him as he bundled the clothes into your arms. “Who’s waiting?” You called after him. “What hole?”

“Any of them,” Frederick yelled back as he walked out of the locker room and down the hall. His voice echoed back to you, a daunting thing. “He booked out the whole course.”

Driving the beer cart over the green was always a nerve wracking experience. The drinks rattled noisily and the breeze kept catching at your skirt, threatening to flip it up over your thighs as you tried to manoeuvre the buggy around the man made dunes and valleys. You weren’t sure where you were driving to, or who you were going to meet, but you kept an eye out at each hole for someone, anyone. 

It could only really be one of two people, you guessed. Mr Donaldson was harmless enough, but he had a decade or three on your own age. Divorced and the owner of a film company in Atlanta, the man liked to frequent the clubhouse during the summers he spent back in Hawkins, pretending he was visiting his young daughter when he really preferred to lounge at the bar during your shift, trying to convince you that you just needed to see his condo in Georgia. 

The only other person you could think of that would request you and you alone, was someone you haven't seen since the week before. You’d looked for him, watched the cars coming into the lot to be dropped off for the valet’s to park but you hadn’t seen any BMW’s. Steve didn’t visit the bar, didn’t spend any afternoons in the smoking lounge - you didn’t even see him with Jonathan Byers at the poker night on Tuesday. 

You thought he might’ve left town again. Back to whatever European city he’d decided on for the week, for the month. Maybe he’d gone back to New York, maybe he had meetings. Maybe he had a girlfriend, one for each country. 

Mr Donaldson was the harmless option. Annoying, sure. But bearable. Safe. Mr Harrington… he wasn’t harmless at all. You knew which one you wanted to see. 

Sure enough, you turned the corner to hole eight to see a group of young men talking and laughing around their own golf cart. You saw some familiar faces, all known for being young, handsome and rich. 

Billy Hargrove of Hargrove’s Vintage Motors. Crude, sharp witted, too flirtatious, he was the next in line to take over his father’s company and fortune, selling refurbished vehicles for prices that made your eyes water. 

Jonathan Byers was there too, a young mogul who was up and coming in the art world. Once a critic, his photography had shot to fame after some black and white nudes of his then girlfriend were ‘leaked’ to the paper he once worked for. His family paid it all off as some sort of art nouveau exhibition, a look into scandal and sex in 30mm film. He lost his girlfriend but landed a gallery in the downtown neighbourhood of San Francisco. 

Eddie Munson, someone you actually knew from high school. A decent guy, there because he worked for it, illegally, sure - but didn’t they all? One way or another? Selling weed and who knows what else to the majority of the population of Hawkins made for a popular man, but Eddie brought in bank when he started selling to the elite, the rich kids of Hawkins High who preferred powder at their parties. He got into The Lake House with cold, hard cash instead of his family name and he stayed in the background of it, usually.

A few other men lingered, clutching at clubs and practising their swings, Wall Street leeches that were stuck at the bottom of the totem pole but still decided they had enough money in their daddies bank to be able to click their fingers at you and smack your ass as their Rolex’s jingled.  

Amongst them all, in black slacks and a white polo, was Steve Harrington. Sunglasses over his eyes, leather golfing gloves on his hands, he was smirking at something Eddie said before his head snapped to you. In fact, everyone was staring at you. 

You tried to keep your head high and your expression neutral, turning off the engine to the golf cart and doing your best to swing your legs out without flashing anything you weren’t supposed to. You kept your hands on your skirt, smoothing it down, hoping that you could get through this shift without any embar—

A long whistle, salacious and eager, coming from Billy Hargrove. A few of the boy’s laughed and Billy grinned, sharklike, letting his eyes crawl from your toes to your tits. “Damn, Harrington. You paid for one of the good ones, huh? C’mere, Sugar, daddy needs a drink—”

You were frozen, standing awkwardly by the back of the buggy where the drinks were kept in a cooler, a thousand dollar pick ‘n’ mix of whisky, scotch and gin for the men to choose from. There wasn’t any Bud Light at The Lake House, not even on the green. 

But Billy didn’t get much further into his catcalls, stopped by a hand on his elbow that tugged him away from you and the other men. The snickering stopped, a heavy silence falling over the group as Steve took Billy aside with nothing more than a touch to his arm. You watched as Steve slid his sunglasses off, his hard gaze on the other boy as he whispered something too low for you to hear. But Billy listened, albeit with a glare in his eyes, but he nodded, sharp and just once. His jaw flexed. 

You didn’t know what was happening. You didn’t know what to do. You found Eddie’s gaze, saw his soft smile, knowing. He winked at you, twirling a club in his hand as he waited for the game to continue. And it did, once Steve seemingly dismissed Hargrove. The other men started talking again, easy and light like nothing had happened, requesting different drinks from you that you pulled out of the cooler, ice making your hands wet and numb. 

And all the while Steve lingered at the back of them, sitting in the driver's side of the other golf cart, waiting with his eyes on you. He didn’t approach once Jonathan left with his glass of Glenfiddich, in fact, he didn’t make out like he wanted a drink at all. So you stood by the cart like you were supposed to and watched the men take turns at swinging a stick at a ball, yelling profanities when they missed, yelling more profanities when they didn’t. 

You couldn’t help let your gaze wander to Steve, the picture of luxury as he leaned back in the leather seat, one leg out of the cart and stretched across neatly clipped grass. He was lighting a cigarette, held between his lips as he lowered his gaze to his cupped hands, gold zippo flickering with an amber flame. He looked up as he blew out the smoke, eyes finding yours, grinning when you startled. 

Steve took another drag and asked, “you not comin’ to say hi?”

Three years of ingrained obedience made your feet move forward, doing as you were told at the words of another rich man. You felt unsure, walking across the green empty handed, but Steve hadn’t asked for a drink, so you stopped just shy of where his leg was stretched out of the cart. If you moved any closer, you would’ve been between his spread knees. You clasped your hands in front of you, pressed against your little, white skirt. It lifted a little with the breeze, a sharper wind than the day before that told the town fall was coming. 

Steve watched the hem catch and fall back against your thighs, brown eyes tracking the movement to see what little new skin he could watch but apart from that, he didn’t make any of the lewd comments his friend had. 

“Mr Harrington,” you said as a greeting. “Good afternoon, can I get you anything to drink?” You were polite to a fault, well trained, good mannered, an expert in making yourself small and only seen when spoken to. 

Steve ignored your question. He inhaled his cigarette again, cheeks hollowing out, lips pursing, jaw sharpening. He smiled at you as he blew smoke out of the side of his mouth, the wind taking it away from your face. “I told you to call me Steve,” he said and his voice was quiet, a low thing that made your face heat up. You tried to apologise, but he kept talking. “How are you?”

You blinked, surprised at his question. You didn’t think you’d ever been asked that while at work. “Uh, I’m fine, thank you. How’re you?”

Steve nodded and flicked ash onto the grass, letting it sink into the course. “I’m great, thank you. Better now you’re here.” He grinned when you fidgeted, lips parting, hands unsure what to do. You twisted your fingers together a little tighter. “You okay being out here?” Steve let the cigarette balance between his lips and you watched it move as he spoke around it. “I can let you go back inside, if you’d like.”

Normally such words would be used as a trick, a trap, a warning. A subtle threat from an unhappy customer that would ensure you did as they wanted, even if it meant staying later than you were being paid for, adding extra time to their spa passes, even if it risked your own employment. But Steve looked and sounded genuine, his eyes watching you as you worked up the courage to tell him the truth.  

“It’s okay,” you finally said, voice betraying how shy you felt. You sounded confident, in control. You felt nothing of the sort, especially when the boy grinned again, wider this time and god, he looked like he owned the world and everything in it. 

“Excellent.” Steve flicked the stub of his cigarette away and pushed his sunglasses back onto the bridge of his nose. He tilted his head at the empty seat beside him and said: “jump in.”

You stuttered over an excuse, an explanation, eyes a little wide as you looked back over to the rest of the group, the drinks cart you were supposed to man all day. “I— I can’t? I’ve to stay with the cart all day, if I leave it I’ll get into—”

Steve cut you off with a tsk and a shake of his head. His voice turned to liquid gold as he spoke, rich and sweet and awfully condescending. It made you drip. “What did I tell you last time, huh, honey? No one’s gonna tell you off unless it’s me. Now c’mon, you don’t wanna spend some time with me?”

You could’ve stayed. You were sure Steve wouldn’t have been mad. You should’ve stayed. You were breaking rules. All of them. But Steve was grinning at you from the front seat of the golf cart, tanned arms flexed as his leather gloves gripped the wheel and all of his friends played pretend, like they couldn’t hear what was going on behind them as they took another swing. 

You should’ve stayed. Maybe went back into the clubhouse, took off your sweater and skirt and played nice behind the bar in your usual attire, serving clients old enough to be your grandfather as they slipped fifty dollar bills into your hand just so you’d lean over for them again. 

You got in the cart. 

Steve positively beamed, a hot smirk that stretched across his pretty face and you barely heard the whistles and yowls of his friends as he sped away as fast as the buggy would allow. He went off course, cruising alongside the green and heading towards the path between the woods that took you to lovers lake. 

“Feeling bad today, Berkeley?” The nickname caused your heart to jump, confirmation that he’d been listening the last time you both spoke, that he’d remembered. 

But still guilt and worry gnawed at your chest and you looked around at the empty course, half expecting to see Frederick chasing after you both in the drinks cart you’d abandoned so carelessly. What did it matter, really? The price of everything in the cart was included in whatever it had cost for Steve to book out the entire fucking course for the day. A stolen scotch or two didn’t matter. Not really. 

You didn’t know how to reply, so you didn’t say anything at all, just sitting by Steve’s side like a baby deer caught in headlights, like a good little girl that wanted to know if it really was true, if Steve really could keep you out of the trouble he was leading you into. The boy must’ve seen your bleak expression ‘cause he laughed, pushing back the hair that the wind blew across his forehead. 

“Honey, it’s fine,” Steve glanced over at you as he turned down the dirt path to the lake. You could see his eyes shining at you through his shades, amusement making them glitter. “I promise.”

So you nodded and tried to smile, doing your best to relax into the seat and when the cart bumped over a fallen branch that Steve didn’t bother to avoid, the jostle of it made your thigh bump into his. He grasped at your knee as an apology of sort, murmuring something you couldn’t hear over the wind, but his palm engulfed your bare knee once more and fuck, fuck, you couldn’t think of anything else. His gold ring looked pretty against your skin, his tanned hand complimenting the dough of your thigh nicely and you tried to remember how to talk. 

“Is there something you needed my help with at the lake, Mr Harrington?” You didn’t think Steve needed any help on how to work speed boats or jet skis, but still, you weren’t sure what else to say. 

Steve laughed again, a pretty sound that made your toes curl and he slowed the cart to a stop at a shaded area along the shore, far enough away from the sandy embankment that the men on the lake in their fishing boats wouldn’t be able to see you. “C’mon now, I thought you were a smart thing,” Steve pouted at you as he turned off the cart's engine. His hand left your leg and you mourned the loss of it, heart jumping again when his hand curled around the back of your seat instead. “What did I tell you to call me?”

Your chest warmed like you were back in middle school, getting scolded by a teacher who you didn’t want to disappoint. It bloomed across your neck and face, only getting hotter as the entire sensation of it made you squeeze your clasped hands between your thighs. Steve’s gaze dropped to your lap, a quick glance down that made the corners of his lips curve up. 

“Steve,” you said quietly, sounding shy, reserved. Your body was giving away too much, you couldn’t let your voice join in. 

Steve nodded and the hand that was resting against your seat moved a little, brushing against your sweater until he could rub a thumb against your shoulder blade. “See, she’s a smart girl after all, isn’t she?”

You could only nod. What the fuck was going on? Hidden by the trees, on the edge of the water that was across from where you usually spent weekday afternoons. You could see The Lake House from here, could practically feel Frederick’s gaze out of the bay windows, boring a hole into the middle of your forehead as you sat with one of the most affluent clients on the rolodex. Steve Harrington had his arm around your back, his eyes on your bare thighs, his other hand ghosting along the hem of your skirt. He pulled at it, bringing it down the mere centimetre it had ridden up, knuckles skimming your too hot skin. 

He didn’t look away from it when he asked you: “And if you are a clever, little thing, d’you know why I brought you here?”

If it had been dark, if it had been closer to night, if the grounds had been empty and the lake was still, maybe you would’ve felt more scared than you were. If it had been anyone else, maybe you would have been sitting there in the shadow of the trees and cursing yourself out for being so stupid. Going with this boy - this man - letting him take you off alone and away from prying eyes, letting him touch your leg and get too close. It was stupid, wasn’t it? Despite what Steve said, this wasn’t smart, was it?

But you found that you didn’t care. You really didn’t fucking care. Not one bit. 

You shrugged, cheeks warm, too wary to say anything out of turn, too cautious to say anything too bold for fear of losing your job. Or worse, being rejected. 

Steve pouted. “No?” He tutted and sighed, a dramatic sounding thing and he let his hand fell back onto your leg, higher this time. You held your breath as he skimmed his palm upupup until his fingertips disappeared under the hem of your skirt that he’d just pulled down for you. “Well, I wanted to personally invite you the poker game with me tomorrow night. You know the one, don’t you? It’s in the lounge, nine o’clock.”

You tried to steady your breathing, exhaling sharply from your nose as Steve’s fingers wandered, never going higher, going slow and soft enough that you could slap his hand away if you wanted to. You didn’t. “I’m working that shift,” you whispered. 

His eyes met yours, his grin blinding. “Good, you’ll be there then.”

“Working,” you reminded him, the last syllable of the word hitching in your mouth as his fingers passed over your leg once more. You felt the cool metal of his gold band on the inside of your thigh. “I’ll be there to work.”

Steve nodded, like he understood, like he wasn’t planning to monopolise every minute of your shift, wondering how long he could keep you by his side at the poker table before you got too worried and scrambled back to the bar. “Of course.” He pulled back a little, his nose too close to brushing yours as you couldn’t help but lean in too, head tilted up to his like you did it all the time. “And then after that,” he took his hand from your thigh and you tried not to cry about it, ‘cause he used the back of his hand to push your hair away from your face instead. “You could come back to mine?”

 Oh, fuck. You couldn’t help the smile that fluttered across your face, the giddy, shy laugh that followed. You were flustered and it showed, and as much as it made Steve smile back, it made him hard as a fucking rock. 

“Shit, uh, god, sorry,” you shook your head, as if to clear it. You felt fuzzy, hazy, under Steve’s spell as he kept smiling at you, clearly entertained by your flushed face, your dazed expression. “I’m really not supposed to do that.”

You didn’t say no, Steve noted. You didn’t say that you didn’t want to. In fact, from the way your eyes dropped to his lips over and over again, Steve was pretty sure he could seal this deal with you faster than his last visit meeting with that winery in Sorrento. 

That wasn’t to say you were easy, no. Just real fucking cute. He had a forty percent share in that vineyard and soon enough, he’d have you too. 

“What?” He played dumb, all syrupy sweet smiles and his voice all soft. He traced a circle around your knee. “You can’t see me out of work? Surely Fredrick isn’t that much of a tyrant, honey.”

You squirmed under his gaze, the one that made you feel like he was undressing you. You were too warm and his innocent fingertips on your knee were making you wanna drag his hand back up your thigh and underneath the hem of your skirt. “We’re not supposed to involve ourselves with club members.” Your words felt dull in your mouth, heavy and cotton like. 

Pointless. 

Steve pouted, lips pursing like he was trying to get you to kiss him. He tutted; his warm, wide palm curling around your thigh again. He squeezed gently and your mouth fell open, panting, an invitation. “What if I want to be involved with you, hm? What then, honey?”

You let your head fall back a little, lips wet and parted, eyes closing briefly, because Steve let his fingers slide up a little further, the tips of his middle and pointer finger brushing, just fucking barely, across the cotton of your underwear. You knew you were wet and you knew that he did too. How could he not? The damp fabric dragged across his digits and you saw the realisation in his eyes, that flash of heat, that curl of his lips that made his smile a smirk. 

“Remember what I told you?” He let his lips fall into ‘o’ at your small noise, an almost whine that sounded blissed out. God, he could have fun with you. “Do you? C’mon smart girl, what do I always get?”

You blinked at him, sucking in a breath as you fought the urge to grind down on his hand. Steve took his fingers away, the damp tips of them trailing back down the inside of your thigh as he waited for an answer. 

“You told me,” you took another breath, looking around quickly, burning at the sight of the boats on the lake, the blurry people across the water by the clubhouse, sitting outside for afternoon tea. “You told me you always get what you want.” 

That was the third time you met Steve Harrington. 

Don't blame me, love made me crazy

The night after, you’d spent too long getting ready for your shift. Too long in the shower, letting the steam fill the tiny room, honey and peach scented body wash running in rivers down your bare skin, your razor chasing after it as you did your best to make every crevice of your body silky smooth. 

You told yourself you weren’t going home with Steve Harrington. You told yourself you couldn’t, that you weren’t allowed to. 

But you took the time to layer mascara on your lashes, fixing any smudges before finishing your makeup with a layer of gloss on your lips, tinted a rosy pink and drawing more attention to them than you’d usually want. Black dress, clubhouse mandated stockings and heels, freshly polished. You left for work with your heart in the back of your throat. 

The Lake House was quieter than usual on poker nights, mostly because each guest had to buy their way in. All players had to place a ten thousand dollar deal in with the croupier, pockets emptied and jackets checked at the door. It made the smoking lounge feel bigger, men seated around a large poker table, the dealer in the middle, chips stacked high and cigar smoke lingering in the air. It smelled like tobacco, leather, expensive cologne and money, and god, the tips were good. 

There were familiar faces around the table, Billy, Jonathan, Mr Donaldson, a few other men from the club that liked to order expensive drinks and call you things like ‘sweet cheeks’ and ‘sugar.’ The room was dimly lit, a soft amber glow that was kept in the room with closed drapes, velvet lined chairs, and bar staff that were trained not to speak unless spoken to. Everything was hushed and whispered, men talking money over glasses of liquor, cigars in one hand, their dealt hand in the other. 

Then there was Steve, coming into the room a little late with another suit on, sharp and with a matching black shirt underneath, looking like he didn’t give a shit. He didn’t look at you as he took his seat, smirking at something Jonathan said and sliding a wad of stacked bills towards the dealer. He got his chips, he got his cards and the game began. 

It took a whole twenty minutes before he raised his hand, a two finger salute that let you know he wanted a drink. You beat the other waitress to it, slipping in front of the new start - Vickie something - and your heels clicked as you made your way over to Steve. You already had a drink on your tray, poured the minute you saw his hand go up, his eyes still on his hand. 

A Macallan, no ice. 

You placed the tumbler on the table in front of him, knees bending slightly to make sure it didn’t spill. Without warning, Steve’s hand snuck along the back of your thigh as you placed your tray under your arm, ready to walk away. Fingertips traced over the crease of your knee, ghosting over your stocking. You watched his gaze flicker to the drink he didn’t have to ask for, a slight curve to the corners of his lips as he smiled his approval. He leaned back, head tipped up to you so you had to bend down slightly to meet him. His hand was slipping up the back of your thigh the whole time, hidden from the rest of the room, from the other players, your boss in the corner. 

You bent at the waist, feeling your skirt rise up, feeling Steve’s hand do the same. His thumb ran along the crease below your ass, over the sliver of bare skin between your underwear and stockings. 

“Smart girl,” he whispered in the shell of your ear, making you burn. His voice was low and a little rough from hardly talking, only communicating with nods to the croupier, dead face glances at his opponents. His chips were stacked high for his efforts. “You look pretty. How ‘bout you just stay beside me, yeah?”

You weren’t supposed to. But you did. You watched as your boss frowned, as Vickie looked surprised. Beside Steve, Jonathan snickered quietly and across the table, Billy narrowed his eyes. 

“Breakin’ some rules?” He mouthed to Steve. 

Steve ignored him.

The night came to an end close to one o’clock, once the bar was almost dry and Steve had most of the money. He accepted the passive remarks about his poker face, his ability to lie through his damn teeth, how he didn’t need all that money anyways. Then there were the handshakes and slaps on the back, good natured talks and invites to lunches, chats about business opportunities and stocks. And all the while you tidied, putting away empty bottles of thousand dollar whisky, pouring hundred dollar glasses of Malbec down the drain. Cigar ash on the table, white powder tipped dollar notes that everyone pretended to not notice. Heavy tips on the table top, damp from spilled drinks, pushed into your apron pocket while the men around you tried to get a peek up your skirt. 

And then Steve was leaning over the bar top and still ignoring Billy. He was watching you clean, eyes tracking the way your hands slid the cloth over the mahogany, and while your cheeks warmed at his attention, you let him. You were off the clock, your shift over. Bar closed. 

Home time. Maybe. 

“—you even listenin’ to me, Harrington?” Billy sounded annoyed, words twisting on his tongue, whisky making them come out a little slower than he wanted them to. 

“No.” Steve’s reply was short and bored sounding. 

“I said, you fucker, that I need a ride. S’posed to be on a goddamn flight at five o’clock and this fuckin’ tequila is makin’ me piss like a fuckin’ racehor—”

Steve didn’t take his eyes off of you as he took his wallet from inside of his suit jacket pocket. Using two fingers, he offered Billy a fifty, holding the bill in front of the other man’s face. “Take a cab.”

Billy looked offended at the suggestion. Disgusted, actually. “A cab? What do I look like to you, huh? Huh? A fuckin’ peasant?”

Steve just shrugged and slapped the bill on the counter anyway. “I’m having company,” he told him. Then he drained the rest of the one drink he’d ordered from you all night and met your gaze straight on. “You ready?”

Not, ‘would you like to join me?’ Not, ‘would you like to come back to mine?’ No. Just a simple question. ‘Are you ready to go?’

You nodded. Yes, you were ready. 

Billy laughed, a sharp and mean thing as he looked between you and Steve. Then his gaze turned salacious, drunk and lazy as he took in your short dress, your shiny lips. He nudged Steve and nodded towards you. “You not sharing this time, Harrington?” He tutted. “What a shame.”

You didn’t know what to say. If you’d been at a bar in town, standing on either side of it, you’d have listened to the twitch in your hand and lifted it, letting your palm meet Billy Hargrove’s right cheek, regardless of how much money was in his wallet. But Frederick was by the door talking to Mr Donaldson about summers in the Bahamas and you couldn’t do shit. 

So you turned your back, polished another wine glass and slid it back onto its shelf. 

“You know,” you heard Steve murmur. His voice was low, controlled. Dangerous sounding. “You keep letting your mouth run like that, and I’ll make sure you don’t have a reason to get that five am flight. One call and there won’t be no fucking meeting in L.A, do you understand?”

You didn’t hear Billy’s reply. In fact, you weren’t sure there was one. Instead, Steve walked to the side of the bar and brushed some invisible lint off of his jacket as he waited for you to untie your apron. You hesitated, watching as Fredrick disappeared into his office and then, and only then, did you step out from behind the bar to join Steve, letting him place his hand on the small of your back and guide you out of the clubhouse. 

He made it too easy to break the biggest rule in the book. 

—————

Steve drove you to a townhouse on the edge of town, the opposite direction from your own home. He took you there in his BMW, a shiny maroon car that looked brand new, with leather seats and shiny detailing on the dash. He didn’t touch you in the car, he just opened the door for you to get in and get out, only offering a hand that you took as you stood on his driveway. 

His house was lit up by lights on either side of the huge garage, another by the double doors. Three floors, a water feature in the front yard, a security system at the entrance. Steve pressed some buttons before something buzzed and clicked, and he opened the door with no grand flourish, extending an arm for you to enter first. 

Everything was sleek and polished, not quite the bachelor pad you expected, but luxurious all the same. Wooden floors and a large fireplace in the living room, the leather and suede of the clubhouse swapped out for a huge sectional, covered in cushions and throws. There was art on the walls, scenes of Greek tragedies, half naked women with dreamy looks on their faces, full curves and thick thighs. A shiny kitchen that looked barely used, bottles of scotch and whisky and gin on a golden bar cart in the corner, a full wall of books surrounding the biggest television you’d seen. The house smelled like Steve, like his cologne, like new leather and oak. 

His footsteps echoed across the room as he strolled into the kitchen, an open plan thing that let you watch him from where you stood by the front door. Steve held up a bottle of wine. Red, a label you recognised from work, something that Frederick charged far too much money for. In your opinion. 

“Drink?” Steve asked. 

You nodded, stepping into the room a little more. There were a few lamps on, a warm flow from each that cast shadows over the floor, up the walls. The curtains were closed, heavy drapes that kept out the night, kept in the secrets. Like you. 

Steve appeared at your side, passing you a glass filled with a little ruby coloured wine. He grinned at your quiet thanks and offered his own for a toast. The glasses clinked and you took a sip, dark cherries and bitter chocolate swirling your senses, or at least, you were sure they would’ve if you hadn’t decided to gulp it down. Steve laughed softly and took your empty glass, setting it on the coffee table with his own. There was a stack of big books in the middle of it, something about American architecture and cars of the sixties, a candle that had never been lit and a cigar box with his initials engraved on the lid. 

“Here, sit,” Steve suggested and you sank into the sofa with him. The boy immediately lounged back into the cushions, arms stretched out over the back of it as he appraised you, head tilted to his side. “You don’t do this often, huh?”

You turned to him, puzzled, your hands sliding nervously up and down your bare legs. Your dress suddenly felt shorter than ever and with the way Steve was looking at you - hungry, predatory, bold - you weren’t sure if you wanted to tug the hem down to your knees or take the full thing off and drop it at his feet. 

“Do what?”

Steve gestured to himself, to the huge living room you felt a little bit lost in. He smirked, “go home with guys you barely know.”

You swallowed thickly, wondering if it would seem rude if you reached out and stole the rest of his wine. If you’d feel braver and bolder if you were to gulp down more Malbec, if the price tag on the bottle would feel better on your tongue. “Not usually,” you said. You left out the part about how you’d be fired on the spot if your boss found out who you were going home with. 

Steve smiled, eyes shining at you like he thought you were cute. He patted the space on the couch beside him. It felt like a million miles away from you. “Come over here,” he said softly. You noticed how he didn’t ask, or suggest. It was an order, as gentle as it was. “I won’t bite.”

You scoffed a little, enjoying the irony of his words despite how he’d looked at you all night, like he wanted to sink his teeth into you, like he wanted to just eat you up. “You won’t?” You asked him, doubtful, even as you slid closer, your thigh brushing his. 

Steve dropped his hand to your knee, fingertips barely brushing your skin as she skimmed up and down, up and down. Each pass got him closer to the hem of your dress and you thought back to yesterday, in that stupid golf cart by the edge of the lake. How easy you made it for him, head thrown back, chest heaving, legs spread. You wanted that again, the feeling of his teasing fingers brushing up against the front of your underwear, lace this time, and already damp. 

Steve flashed a grin, all teeth, more bite than a smile and you resisted the urge to clamp your thighs together, trapping his hand between. You’d never been this hot for a guy, never been this easy to fold. You felt delicate with Steve, ready to crumple, ready to fold. 

“Not on the first date, no,” he assured you. 

Your brows rose into your hairline. “This is a date?”

Steve flattened his palm against your thigh and squeezed, leaning into you, nose brushing your cheek until you ripped your head for him and it skimmed the line of your jaw. Your breathing changed too quickly, stuttering to a hitch until it picked up, your eyes closing as you felt Steve’s lips brush against you in the briefest of touches. It wasn’t even a kiss. 

“What did you think it was?” Steve whispered, his words hot against your neck. You could smell his cologne, rich and peppery, could feel the slight stubble on his jaw scrape against your throat and you were desperate now, you needed him to kiss you. “What did you think I invited you here for, honey?”

His hand was higher now, fingers under the hem of your dress and you wanted to fall into him, you wanted to crawl into his lap and spread your legs, get properly dirty for him and pull your dress up around your hips and show him how you liked to be touched. Although, you had a feeling he wouldn’t need much help. “I, I don’t know—” you interrupted yourself with a gasp, Steve’s fingertips running along the lace edge of your underwear, teasing the crease of your thigh. “A one night stand, maybe.”

The boy laughed, a soft noise that was buried in the crook of your neck and he finally, finally, put his mouth on you. He kissed sweetly at the spot under your ear, grinned against it when you squirmed at the feel of him and then dragged his parted lips down the column of your neck. You felt the tip of his tongue, a tiny touch, teasing, warm and wet. 

“Just one night?” Steve tutted, letting his fingers slip underneath the edge  of your underwear. You were an elastic band now, pulled too right, fraught with unspent energy, ready to snap at the tension. “What if I wanted to keep you, hm?” His fingers ghosted over your folds, already slick and wet for him. If he was affected by it, he didn’t show it. He pulled at you gently, spreading you for him, a single digit touching your needy clit as he kept you open. It was filthy. “You’re too pretty for one night, aren’t you?”

You didn’t know what you were agreeing to, but you nodded anyway. You were sure you already looked wrecked, head slack and leaning against Steve’s shoulder, his lips now dotting over your hairline. Legs open, underwear pushed up and to the side by Steve’s hand, his one finger sliding up and down the seam of your cunt. The rubber band was getting tighter. 

Steve hummed, a deep, warm noise that rumbled in his chest. “Look at me, honey,” he ordered and you did as were told, eyes heavy and haze unfocused as you turned your head to face him. He was so close, the only evidence he was as turned on as you were, were his blown out pupils, his heavy eyelids. “There she is, oh sweetheart, you’re gone, huh?” he cooed. 

You thought he might kiss you then, you thought he might kiss you, finally. But he nuzzled his nose against yours - a surprisingly sweet thing - before he murmured, “take your clothes off for me.”

It was embarrassing, the way your lips parted and your cheeks went hot. You wondered if Steve felt it, the warmth that exploded from your skin at his words, the way your empty cunt clenched around nothing at his words. He gave you clit one more passing nudge before he moved his hands from you completely and sank back into the couch. One arm over the back of it, legs crossed, the other hand brought to his mouth so he could rub the finger he’d dipped along your pussy against his bottom lip. 

It was obscene. 

He nodded to the space between the sofa and the coffee table and licked his lips. “C’mon, honey, strip.”

You should’ve pulled down your dress and thrown what was left of his wine in his face before you slammed the door on your way out. This man, this rich boy with his big house and shiny car, was ordering you around like you were still at the clubhouse. Like he could flash his members only card and get what he wanted. He hadn’t even kissed you. He didn’t know your last name, and shit, the only reason you knew his, was because him and his family were at the top of the client list at the place you worked. 

You could lose your job over this. Worse, you could get your heart broken. 

Steve must’ve sensed your hesitation because he reached back over to brush your hair from your eyes, where it had fallen in a mess when you hid your face in the dip of his shoulder as he tapped at your clit again and again and again. He pouted, tsked in a way that sounded sympathetic. “Oh honey, are you shy?” Condescension dripped from him, words liquid gold, sticky sweet and trapping you. He ran the back of his knuckles down your cheek, his thumb dragging over your bottom lip. It was as close to a kiss as you would get. “It’s okay, hm? Am I not playing nice? Am I being rude?”

You didn’t know what to say. You were being sucked in by this man’s charm, his caramel coated words, the way his brown eyes turned soft as he took your hand and led you to stand up in the middle of his living room. “I’m sorry, honey,” Steve whispered. “How awful of me. Lemme try again, huh?” He kissed your cheek, a soft, lingering thing before he left you standing, sitting back in front of you once more. 

Steve pushed back his hair and let his eyes appraise you before he rolled his shirt sleeves up and leant back into the cushions. A king on his throne. And the entertainment for tonight? 

You. 

“Take your clothes off for me, honey,” he tried again, his voice softer this time, lower, dirtier. And then he smiled at you and added: “please.”

With shaking hands and a held breath that made your chest burn, you pulled the material down your shoulders, reaching around your back to tug at the zip. And when it fell open, exposing your skin to the warm air, it was too easy to let the entire dress fall down over your hips. It pooled at your feet and you stepped out of it, heels still on, legs covered in the sheer black stockings that the clubhouse made mandatory for poker nights. 

Steve’s lips made a little ‘o’ shape, an appreciative thing that made you pulse with need. You saw then how his dress trousers were tented at the front, an impressive bulge that twitched when you smoothed your hands over your upper thighs, a nervous reaction to being so exposed. 

“Oh,” Steve exhaled as he let his eyes rake over you. Soft skin between black lace, thigh highs pulled taught against your curves, tits pressed up in a bra you’d chosen as you thought him. You hoped he wouldn’t embarrass you, you hoped he wouldn’t ask you to do something like spin for him, show off for him. Because you would’ve. “Aren’t you a pretty fucking picture.”

He didn’t need to talk after that. He just lifted his chin towards your chest and you were pulling off your bra for him. You hated how the control of it all made you wetter, the space between your legs fucking throbbing as you waited for your next instruction. “Unless you want those ripped,” Steve was gazing at your underwear, eyes seeking out every dip and line he could make our in the wet lace. “I’d take them off too.” He didn’t let them hit the floor with the rest of your clothes, instead, extending one hand and crooking his fingers. 

A silent, ‘give them to me.’ 

And you did, watching as he slipped them into his trouser pockets, keeping his eyes on you, trailing them over your thighs that were slick with how wet he’d got you. He’d hardly touched you, you scolded yourself, not even a kiss. It was embarrassing, mortifying. It was the hottest thing that had happened to you. 

“Keep those on,” Steve murmured, talking about your heels and stockings. “And come sit back down for me, honey, yeah?” 

The fabric of the couch felt soft under your bare skin and you hesitated before you let yourself relax into it. There surely would be a wet spot underneath you, evidence of how turned on you were, but Steve didn’t seem to mind. 

“That’s it,” he encouraged softly. “Get comfy, hm? Such an agreeable, little thing aren’t you?” Steve was sliding off the couch as he spoke, one palm pressed to his crotch as if to stave off some of his own need. He knelt in front of you, mouth parting in a sigh as he dropped to eye level with your cunt. “Think you can spread those legs for me? Let me see you, honey, there’s a girl—”

He cut himself off with a low groan as you brought your feet up, heels on the edge of the couch as you spread your knees, sticky thighs parting. He could see all of you, fuck, he could probably smell you. The low light made every part of you glisten, the heavy rise and fall of your chest cast in an amber glow.  

“Oh she’s real fuckin’ pretty, isn’t she?” Steve asked you, eyes tearing away from your pussy to look up at you. “Spread ‘em wider for me, baby, can you do that?” Another moan from the boy as you let your knees fall apart, almost touching the couch. Steve smoothed his hands up your tights, bracketing your cunt before he did the same as before and pulled your folds even further apart. “Look at that,” he whispered. 

You couldn’t. You let your head fall back onto the cushion, eyes squeezed shut as you let your own hands fall onto your knees. You dug in your nails, crescent moon marks on your skin as your tried to keep a grip on reality. You were almost certain you’d come with just one touch. 

“Want my mouth?” Steve asked you and his voice was back to that sugar sweet drip, it was thick with an affection, like he was being so nice for taking care of you. You already wanted to thank him. “Want my tongue?”

His thumbs rubbed up and down your folds, keeping them spread apart, a dirty massage that made your clit pulse with each tiny movement. You nodded, letting out a uneven breath and Steve tutted. 

“You gotta look at me then, c’mon, Berkeley.” He nipped at your thigh, teeth biting at the skin and it made you cry out. “Look at me and tell me you want me to eat you out.”

Dirty, filthy, obscene, sinful. 

You were under no illusion that giving Steve an order made you the one in charge. He played you like a puppet, a boneless girl that wanted nothing more than to come all over this rich strangers sofa. You had a one track mind, no shame left, not when Steve was pressing his mouth over you folds, not licking into you, not yet. Just kissing. You wanted to cry. 

“Eat me out,” you begged, eyes glassy as you tried to lift your hips but Steve pulled away. He grinned at you, waiting. “Eat me out, please, Steve. Fuck, want your mouth yeah, please?”

“Where?” He asked, dragging it out. His voice was unholy. “Where do you want my mouth?” His thumbs were still moving, up and down and up and down. “Tell me.”

“My pussy, Jesus Christ,” you whined. You couldn’t ever remember being this pent up. “Please.”

“Oh,” Steve cooed, “she’s so polite.” And then he gave you no other warning, dipping his head so he could lick a stripe through your folds, the hot, wet contact of his tongue making you cry out. 

You were unraveling too fast. His thumbs had you taught for him, every part of you feeling his tongue, his lips. Steve groaned into you, a happy, pleased hum that told you whatever game this was, he’d won. He kept his tongue flat, slow, broad strokes of it going from your entrance to your clit until you were curling over him and clutching his hair, doing your best to not suffocate him. But Steve moaned louder and moved his hands to your hips, sliding down until they cupped under your ass and he encouraged you to grind against his face. Tongue still out, kept flat for you to rock yourself on. It was pornographic.  

Then Steve was mumbling into you, voice a rasp. “Good girl, honey, that’s it. Keep going, make yourself come on my tongue, yeah?”

So you did, obedient as ever, letting out a gasping cry as your legs shook, cunt still clenching around nothing ‘cause Steve had broken you with just his mouth. It was dirty hot, the way he dragged himself from your sensitive slit, tongue running over your folds even as you whined, licking over the crease of your thighs to get everything you’d spilled for him. You watched as he appeared between your knees, hair tousled, lips and chin shining in the low light, his cheeks flushed. It was ironic, how he looked more boyish after he made you come, expensive black shirt creased from where your legs had pressed against him, his own gaze a little fucked out. 

Logic would suggest that perhaps you’d get a kiss then, something soft and sweet to soothe you down before he fucked you senseless, before you got to wrap your own fingers or lips around him. Steve looked big, if the solid press of him against his trousers was anything to go by. Thick and still rock hard, an easy eight inches trapped taught against his thigh, just as impressive as his wealth and status. Your mouth watered. 

He kissed the inside of your knee instead, his heavy lidded gaze on yours before he offered you his hands to help you sit up and then said, “I better get you home.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Home,” Steve repeated. He passed you back your bra, your dress. Not your underwear though, no. They were still in his pocket. “I gotta be at the airport in—” he checked his watch, the picture of blasé. “—an hour.”

You pulled on your dress, a little speechless. This boy had just made you come harder than you’d ever managed yourself and now he was busying himself with lighting a cigarette he pulled from the packet in his pocket. Your eyes wandered, he was still hard. 

“What about,” you licked your lips, suddenly shy. You nodded towards his crotch, the absolute monster he packed in his slacks. “What about you?”

Steve grinned, bending down to peck your cheek as you wriggled into your uniform, trying to pull yourself back together. “I’ll live,” he told you, blowing out smoke as he spoke. “We’ll call it an IOU, huh? But my plane leaves soon, honey. I’ll cash that favour when I’m back.”

“When?” You blurted out. It sounded like something a girlfriend would demand to know and you cringed, but Steve kept smirking. He helped you slip on your heels, cigarette hanging from his lips that definitely tasted like you. 

“Unsure,” he told you casually, “there’s things I need to wrap up in Monaco before I can go to Tuscany for a few weeks. There’s problems at the vineyard and there’s a new plot I want to look at in Alassio too.”

All you heard was money money money. So you nodded and gave him a small smile, legs still a little wobbly from his touch, his mouth, his tongue. And when Steve dropped you off at the door of your too small apartment, he took your chin between his finger and thumb and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your jaw, just below your ear. 

The kiss goodnight to your lips didn’t come. You felt confused, a little stilted. But you got out the BMW and waved goodbye, wondering what you were supposed to do at three in the morning after Steve Harrington had tumbled your world upside down. 

PART TWO

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington smut #steve harrington x reader smut #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington oneshot

[ely--sia]

01: amor vincit omnia

amor vincit omnia - love conquers all; miguel o'hara x reader fantasy au in which miguel is a powerful, famed knight of the queen, and you are but a lowly commoner he rescues out of the blue... and you are met with his gaze for the first time.

<- previous chapter next chapter ->

you are petrified. your legs refuse to work, and even if they did not, where would you go? blood paints your fingertips and the edges of your ragged and torn dress. you hold your breath in fear that if you breathe too loudly, too fast, you will be found. you do not know whose blood stains your skin, whose hands you had held as they were torn away from you. tears stream down your face. your fate would end in this torn-down, old house, inside this dusty closet. your nails dug into your palms, drawing blood from their crescent moon indents. 

outside, they are shouting. then, you smell burning. you hear the crackle of fire. you imagine it setting the slowly-darkening sky ablaze. once, fire meant festival. fire meant being embraced in your father’s arms as you both watched the sky light up. but your father is long-gone, and as you had once consumed the beauty of the flame, the flame would now consume you. you tense up as you hear thuds of heavy footsteps that enter this house. you can smell the smoke getting closer to you. your breathing quickens. you fear you have breathed too quick, too loud as the steps suddenly come to a halt. you can tell they are in front of you, waiting for more. suddenly, the door of the closet is ripped open. it breaks off of the hinges with a sickening crack. 

you look up, and there is a large man. he is tall and muscular, each of his arms as thick as a tree trunk. he wears a dark armor. and you cannot deny that he is handsome in every sense of the word. his jaw is set and his cheekbones are sharp, as if they would be able to cut boulders. you meet his eyes. they are furrowed and a red-brown. they meet yours and your heart beats faster. you are so afraid that your breathing halts. his eyes search yours, and yours search his. you can almost feel him through just his gaze. there is a hint of regret and second-thoughts within it. you find comfort in this. he is as human as you are. you would die by the hands of someone who saw you, who truly thought and re-thought the act of killing you. and in this moment, it brings you comfort. fear drains from your body as you begin to accept it all. your lips twitch into a small smile. if it was him, then it would be okay, you think. let his blade be swift and strong. you never break his gaze. he grows more worried, and, seemingly, more and more stressed. it is okay, you try to convey. he breaks the gaze first. his brows furrow and his eyes close as he turns away. you almost reach out, almost wrap his hand around his blade and lift it to your neck, reassuring him that it was fine. 

he turns back to you and stares for a few seconds. in those seconds time stops and your breath stops with it. then, he reaches out a reluctant hand. you stare at it as if you had never seen a hand before. it is foreign to you. fear almost fills you again in such an unexpected situation. you look back up at him, making sure that this was real, that you were not misinterpreting anything. he rubs the bridge of his nose and breathes out an annoyed sigh. 

“take it,” he demands gruffly. his voice is tired and reluctant, but his hand never wavers. you like the sound of his voice, you think to yourself. 

it almosts makes you laugh. if it was any other situation, you would have laughed, no doubts at all. but right now, your heart beats with uncertainty as you place your hand in his, soft ones against his roughness. his hands are big and calloused. there is beauty in hands like these. it portrays honesty, loyalty, and a devotion that is hard to find. he scoffs and moves his hands to your wrist, pulling you up roughly. he pulls you outside quickly, and you can hardly keep up. throughout the village, you can see the foreign soldiers beginning to set everything on fire. your eyes widen as you see bodies along the streets. you pray that the people had left before they were met with such a cruel fate. you swear to the heavens that you will make it out alive and free. their stories, existence, and lives would live forever through you. you continue to be pulled away until you are met by a large, black steed on the outskirts of the village. you are shaking from a molotov cocktail of emotions: fear, relief, anger, anguish, and hope. 

“thank you,” you whisper. you cannot focus on anything. you fear that if you speak louder, then you would burst into tears. would the spited dead rise from the ground and bring you down with them, angered that you had made it out alive? 

miguel wordlessly wraps a cloak around you, covering your face. 

“do not speak to anyone,” he says, and you listen. you make yourself hidden as he leaves to go back to the center of it all. 

in what feels like seconds, the sun sets and a blaze lights the night sky. the stars are drowned by the loud burning of the flame. 

you sit down on the wet dirt, leaning against the tree as the steed next to you reared back, afraid of the fire. a sharp, acrid smell fills your nose. 

your entire life is in flames. 

for just one more time, you remember your father. you try to pretend that you are with him again, and that you are little once more. you try to pretend that fire still means festival. you try to pretend that his arms are wrapped around you again, and that if you turned your head back, you would be able to see his smiling face and the world reflected in his eyes. 

but the night is cold around you. and when you turn your head back, you are met with the cold, black eyes of the knight’s steed. 

-

-

-

-

a/n: part one!1!!! they meet and then he rescues her isnt that so romantic ^3^ please it gets better trust me!!!!!

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara #atsv miguel #miguel spiderverse #miguel x reader #miguel spiderman #spiderman 2099

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Idyll - Mal de Mer

Silco and Mel unwinding from their duties...

Mal de Mer on AO3

Snippet:

They've passed a week in the Ionian villa, with its cliffside perch and sun-soaked beaches. Their wing is the most secluded. Its decor is the traditional Ionian style: rich earth tones of rust and umber, offset by the cool blues of the sea through the wide slatted doors, which frame the private courtyard garden, brimful with violets.

The floors, of marble and granite, are streaked with the golden veins. The walls, too, are gold-flecked: a warm, burnished amber, that in dawn's slanting rays, casts a glow like fire. The lamps and fixtures are wrought from a metal like gold, but softer, with a mellow patina of age. The furnishings themselves, of teak and wrought brass, are simple: a canopied bedstead with voile drapes, a long low table, a dresser with a tall ornate mirror, and an antique armoire for their clothes.

An archway, at the courtyard's far end, opens onto a private bathing suite: a deep blue pool, fed from an underground spring, set with stone benches carved into the contours of shells, and mosaic tiles depicting sirens from ancient lore. The ceiling, high and vaulted, is crowned by a stained-glass skylight: admitting the afternoon sun in a multicolored aurora. Beyond the garden's walls, the faint blue smear of the sea glitters, with a private berth where their yawl bobs, anchored in the shallows.

Since they've arrived, a routine of decadent idleness has crept in. Day by day, their public selves—their most polished selves—are carved off. Only the private ones remain: the quieter, subtler terrain upon which marriage truly rests.

And within it, blossoming, the fragile buds of intimacy.   

Transitioning from day to night, they wake to the golden cadence of the late-afternoon waves. A brunch of local-baked bread, smoked salmon, and ripe tropical fruits, is fetched up by the staff. They sup together beneath a trellis of flowering plumeria, to the low buzz of the cicadas and the soft lapping of the surf: Mel, in a pale handwoven tunic, Silco, in a loose linen day-suit. 

After, they stroll along the secluded shore: Mel, her bare feet dusted with sand; Silco, his jacket slung over his shoulders, a cigarette dangling between his lips.  The tides dictate their meander: one moment ambling side-by-side, their hands loosely clasped. The next, he's slipped from her grasp, to dip his toes into the water, followed by the rest of him.

Each time, she waits, perched on a half-buried boulder, until the waves bring him back.

Sometimes he returns with a gift—a prickly-spined urchin; a spiraling conch shell; a vivid cobalt crab. Other times, he'll surface empty-handed, and drag her, shrieking, into the shallows: the spray of the seasalt in her hair, the span of his hands at her waist and the taste of his mouth on hers.

She's not afraid of the tide taking her.

He's capable of holding her afloat.

Afterward, their clothes are left to the dry sand. Beneath the spreading branches of the palm trees, she'll lays out a blanket: a patchwork quilt, bought from the local bazaar. Together, they sprawl across the soft cottony swathes, and trade bites from a wicker basket stuffed with local delicacies: crisp salted flatbread, a round clay jar of spiced honey, and a selection of dried fruits and cured meats, wrapped in wax paper.

They speak less, on these lazy days. Less of politics, less of policy.  Instead, their talk is like the tide: an ebb and flow that laps at the edges of honesty, without breaking into full disclosure. She asks him, delicately, about his days as a smuggler in the Black Lanes. He asks her, wryly, about the foibles of the Noxian nobility.

Their questions are posed as harmless banter. But the answers, she knows, are a test.

What will you think, they each wonder, when you hear my truth?

Will you recoil? Will you judge?

Or will you understand?

They are still learning the shape of each other's pasts. Still trying to fit it, piece-by-piece, into the gaps of their present: the new, raw, tenuous thing that binds them. It is an imperfect fit, the shards not quite aligned. But the gaps are narrowing. Each day, something slots into place.

Something real.

Something theirs.

#arcane #arcane league of legends #arcane silco #silco #forward but never forget/xoxo #forward (never forget)/xoxo #arcane mel #mel medarda #mal de mer #silco x mel #melco

[ceexb]

Hobie Head cannons of him in Jamaica

Summary: Hobies gf who left Jamaica when she was younger to London.(Hobie has a black Jamaican girlfriend that takes him to the islands.)

Word count: 1,080

Parings: Hobie and black reader.

Warnings:-minors dni

Afab reader

mentions of weed language,smut,bitting,fingering and kissing.

(I’m American born,so I’ll give my knowledge as best as I can. also it’s a stereotype that all Jamaicans smoke weed which obv isn’t true and just a generalization)

Reblog 😋😗 and like

Master list

-Upon learning that you plan to bring him to Jamaica to meet your family and explore the country, Hobie's excitement soared, and he eagerly asked about the departure date.

-Given that Hobies from the UK where there is a significant Jamaican population, Hobie has some familiarity with Jamaican culture.

-“so when we leaving baby” jumping up and down

-“next week” you say

-he’ll be rushing to his room to pack the most sluttiest outfits that accentuate his skinny waist.

- I don't think Hobie would even consider taking the plane to get there,because he has a boat that he can use to travel across the seas.

- However, you get seasick and your afraid of the ocean.So you would prefer to take the plane instead.

-you guys would spend like the first days of the trip in a villa and the second half visiting family and showing him around parishes in Jamaica.

-you would take him to like the country side

-not the touristy Kingston side where a lot of the up town and yt folks be at.

-I mean the country with Goats,modest homes and mango trees,Homes nestled on the hillsides of the mountains.

-like he deff would be one with nature behind your childhood home,easily bonding with your uncles like their old acquaintances.

-he’ll be listening to some reggae (maybe some cronix x 🤭🫡)

and smoking some good ganja and chopping sugar cane.

-You will approach him from the rear entrance, carrying the fruit that your mother had prepared for him and instructed you to bring.

-Although you intended to check on him, you observe him settling in comfortably and making himself feel at home.

-you walk up to an even more chill hobie,eyes low and red just in his swimming trunks .

-His shirt buttons loose revealing his abs with his lips sucking on some sugar cane.

-watching as the juice drips down his chin but him quickly catching it with his tongue making slurp noises.

-it’ll probably give you flash backs from previous nights when you were making out back of your legs hitting the bed and pushed to lay under him only later to be quivering in a puddle of your own mess and his head diving back between dem thighs as you grip and pull on his wicks.

“Fuck..hobie it feels soo good”

“Yeah I bet it does” and he lifts his head up to peer at you then down to leave bites on the skin of your inner thighs that will leave bruises for the next days of the trip….

(woooh 🫢😋 I’m going feral by the thought)

-Y’all know that little river raft trip that people go on in Jamaica ?

-yeahhh you guys would go on one of those but knowing hobie he wouldn’t let a random, massage and touch on your body.

-It's like the experience where individuals embark on a small raft crafted from bamboo, bound together with ropes, enjoying the serene atmosphere as you drift along a river. And During this journey,you receive massages and feel the soothing vibes.

-If you were to partake in such an adventure with Hobie, he wouldn't allow just anyone to massage and touch your body randomly.

-…”And they basically do like massages”

“🤨Touching on my girl? Ina bathing suit ??

yeahh nah I’ll do it”

(He’s possessive but In a non toxic attractive way)

-He’d take the lotion staring at the guy side eyeing him the whole time.

-As he kneels down and begins applying pressure with squeezing motions onto the various layers of your muscles.

-Then there's the guy, who awkwardly stands there staring 🧍🏿‍♂️🏞️

-Hobes, being the effortlessly cool type, possesses the ability to seamlessly blend in regardless of the country he finds himself in; he can easily adjust and adapt.

-hes more of a yardie than you,speaking better patois and shit.

-And Having a fluent convo with your family

-"How did you become so fluent in Patois, babe? I didn't even teach you. It's even better than mine."

-Given his personality, he would likely wear a cocky smirk, shrug casually, and lean back in the white party chair, with his hands behind his head.

"It's just a natural instinct. better start practicing," he would say, pointing jokingly to a "Patois for Dummies" book as you stomp away in response.

(Idk if that book exists but oh well🤷🏾‍♀️)

-yo, I could just imagine you guys in the personal pool of a villa getting nasty in the pool then kissing all the way to the bed,water dripping messing up the floor of the room and hobie falling needy on top of you,panting impatiently slipping your panties to the side to finger you.

-Then the next day acting like nothing happened.

- Once you bring him to your childhood home, both of you would be exhausted from a long day of driving from the villa,so you would go straight to sleep upon arrival.

- The next morning, you would wake up alone in a bed,putting on a robe, and making your way to the kitchen. In the kitchen around the corner,you would hear the faint sound of laughter and the voices of your mother and him.

- I have a strong feeling that your mother would adore him, especially when in the kitchen together.

- I have confidence in his cooking skills; I can already envision him preparing a bowl of peanut porridge.

-He’ll be like “I think they like me 😗”

-“Yeah a little bit too much” murmuring under your breath jealous

“huh what was that” he goes.

his hand on the shell of his ear hearing what you said just wanting you to repeat it. so he can rub it in.

-“Nothing. hmm”

Arms crossed stopping off again

-“Don’t be jealous love,cause your parents love me more…!”

Yelling as you walk away.

-then after days of exploring you guys being driven to the airport and his mom kissing him on both checks wishing him to come back to visit next time.

“Come back soon alright?”

————-//—————-//————-//—————//————//———-//————//————-///————//———-//———-///————-//———-///———-//——///

(I really hate this post ,but it’s been sitting in my drafts for far too long)

#black fanfic writer #hobie x black!reader #hobie headcanons #hobie smut

[blueberrypancakesworld]

Can I please ask for a yandere Carla with kianna komori

Like in this scenario after killing off the sakamaki brothers she stepped out of the house to watch the House burn and he ended up meeting her

(After stalking her and planning how to kidnap her those plans were thrown out the window after she killed the sakamaki brothers)

Also can this be smut

Also the rest is up to you

Endless night

Carla x oc

warning : smutish, character x oc, kissing, mentioning of murder and fire, minors wounds, tiny comfort

Info : So here it is dear @nunezs-stuff hope you like it and it was really, really fun to write Carla (one of my fav) so yeah have fun reading ;)

masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She was different from her relatives. The exterior was as different as summer from winter. Where there was blonde, the brown was as dark as the tree trunks that spread out around the villa.

Where there was pink, there was gold. Where there was shyness and friendliness, her other half was loudness and opinion behind a face that was like a blank page.

Where there was pink, she was dark, and yet they both shared a love of ruffles, of colors you could bake with. They were both each other's coin, one side complementing the other.

Something the heir to the throne of the other world had observed from the very beginning. Ever since her sister, the "Eva", had joined the three cousins he and his own brother had been watching for hundreds of years. He had watched how the brothers had fought against their own mother and uncle.

Cordelia his cousin had taken it too far in her delusional love and brutal nature she had only brought about the demise of this bride that would send her to her grave forever and ensure her death. Her lover Richter disappeared and history continued its course when she hit the painting. His Kianna.

Even though he knew he and his brother were steadfast, this girl was worth that special something more than any bride, any eva, anything he had ever seen.

For the first time he felt something like a spark of blood inside him, the attraction to her was inevitable and this reaction inside him made him think of his cousins for a moment.

,,Maybe the blood flows crazier in our family after all... it won't be the end of time that eats me away, it will be love," he mumbled as he looked at the picture in his hand in his room, a photograph he had just caught in a careless moment.

But this photo was all he held on to and would continue to hold on to. Until one day he would lay his golden eyes on the inferno, the inferno he had watched with a joyful madness in his eyes. His favorite, his work of art had actually made it, she had escaped from his first cousins.

Had burned them all and was now wandering through the forest. It was the time to strike, a time he chose. She watched as the moon slowly began to turn red in the sky, the red matching the flames and the blt behind her.

But it didn't matter, she had killed them and had to get away from this place, anywhere they weren't true. Away from a world of suffering and pain not knowing that in her shadow the devil with white hair was following her.

She didn't know how she found herself in a new place after an indefinite period of time. The fog of time was too thick and impenetrable for her to remember exactly. Except that she remembered how it had started when he had kissed her.

He wasn't cold like the other monsters, he saw exactly how behind her veiled eyes, through the dull hurt of the smoke, she clung to him. ,,I knew you would love me," he had whispered to her, laying their bodies on the soft, large canopy bed. Those golden eyes so like hers as he looked at her.

She was afraid, but of what? She didn't know, but what Kianna did know was that if she lost the love she was getting, she would be facing something worse than just this time and world. Inside her she sensed that there were others like the six who, unlike him, wanted to harm this monster with the golden eyes.

It was only right that she clung to him as his fingers slowly opened the blouse on her body, touching her cold skin through the night and sending goose bumps down her spine. ,,Everything will get better...just let me help you," she had heard his voice before she felt him for the first time.

The long white hair on her skin lightly fisted as he leaned in and kissed her gently and invitingly, not roughly and overwhelmingly like Shu.

It was possessive in its way, but the heir to the throne was different from the six. He was desirable to her and they both adored him.

As he took off her clothes, his lips kissed her irritated skin through the fire and the night. His power was pleasantly tickling, but also soothing and arousing. His cool fingers glided over the exposed skin, his sweet words.

The praise reached her ears for the first time after only anger and hatred from the others. ,,Never leave me" she heard the words nodded and nodded she would stay with him it was better with him than anywhere else.

She felt his body, his fingers on her, his arms supporting her, his chest warm, even if there was no heartbeat, whether from his illness or from the love he felt for her.

That no matter if his brother heard her, Carla knew that on this night when the moon shone red, he made her his.

His pointed canines ran gently over the soft skin of her thigh, leaving kisses and light bites. She knew what he wanted and he would give everything for his Kianna. Because this night, the blood of the moon, this night of their love would never end.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

#diabolik lovers #diabolik lovers shu #shu sakamaki #shu sakamaki x oc #character x oc #oc

[sweetteok]

two poems

i wrote these in therapy the other day for a mindfulness activity and thought they would be a nice starting off point for my blog!

ideal weekend:

Cottage, cabin, villa region mountainous, brush vegetation Smoke bellows from chimney thin wisps dance upwards towards star-friends  a dazzling performance with special guest fireflies illuminating the night sky fireplace crackles, making music among band mates- -crickets, owls, and streams and famed lead song-singer “Wind Through the Trees” deer, rabbits, squirrels- all fauna come to hear  the age old music  of Mother Nature and her kin.

hope:

what once was gone replenishes; the Serpent forever consuming its own tail,  hungry and full all at once the world-ender; fires and floods sweep across the earth until not a soul is left yet there, at the end of it all; stands two new babes eyes open, lungs draw first breath a man and a woman- Adam and Eve  they cry and mourn hope is lost and the world is perished. they dance and sing for what joy is to be found in the absence of despair?

#books & libraries #poetry #musings #tteokwrites

[butterflyheartau]

~Cats Outside Groups~

💌*KAYLA --- short-haired former kittypet marmalade Burmese molly with green eyes, mother of NEWT --- (long-haired blue silver marbled torbie and white mink molly with green eyes), SPECKLE --- (short-haired apricot silver classic tabby mink tom with white freckles, white mitts, and blue eyes), and HAWK --- (short-haired blue silver tom with a white face and white freckles)

💌FALCON --- long-haired silver rosetted blue caramel bicolour tom with blue eyes and a half-torn-off tail

💘ASH --- short-haired black smoke tom with low-to-medium white spotting, folded ears, and dark eyes

💘BUBBLE --- long-haired ginger low-contrast molly with green eyes and low white spotting and thin scars on her legs, mother of POP --- (short-haired black smoke tom with low white and amber eyes) and BURR --- (long-haired albino molly with blue eyes)

💝MANTIS --- short-haired fawn classic tabby tom with paler legs, a white face, one folded ear, and blue-grey eyes

💝BUMBLEBEE --- short-haired black harlequin jack with dark brown eyes and a missing back right leg, mother of DRAGONFLY --- (long-haired black tom with low white and light brown eyes), LADYBUG --- (long-haired blue classic tom with low white and light blue eyes), and BEETLE --- (short-haired blue classic tabby molly with high white and blue eyes)

💝BUTTERFLY --- long-haired mackerel tortoiseshell molly with white gloves, a white face, and yellow eyes, mother of MOTH --- (short-haired blue classic molly with gold eyes)

AMBER --- long-haired cryptic tortoiseshell molly with a white neck, white gloves, and amber eyes

💖COURTNEY --- blind short-haired cinnamon smoke pseudo-tabby molly with white cheeks, white freckles, a white tail-tip, and pale grey eyes

💖BRITTANY --- short-haired dominant white molly, masking lilac classic tabby, with blue eyes

RUPERT COOK BARNABY DE LA VILLA IV (Cook) --- long-haired kittypet fawn classic Persian pointed tom with violet eyes

GARNET --- long-haired smoke chocolate tortoiseshell jack** with a white tail-tip, white chest, and cyan eyes

Kayla & Falcon live in a barn. Falcon has lived there his whole life whereas Kayla moved in after meeting him one day while she was roaming. A kittypet friend told her what would happen to her kits if she stayed with her housefolk so she fled until she found Falcon and began living with him. They hunt in the barn and around the farm and take in lost, sick, or injured cats to nurse back to health. They are known for being skilled with the herbs the farm owners grow in their garden.

Ash & Bubble and Mantis, Bumblebee, & Cricket live under a dilapidated bridge just outside of Feather Court territory. While unplanned, Bubble, Butterfly, and Bumblebee all had their kits in the same moon, so Feather Court allow Ash and Smoky to hunt in their territory during newleaf and greenleaf. They don’t hunt there much so as not to overstep and generally hunt in some meadows and a copse of trees near their home. Their den is sheltered by fallen stones, a log, and some old construction materials disposed of there.

Amber lives in an abandoned truck in a lot near Kayla and Falcon’s farm. She visits often, sharing tongues and hunting with them. They’re all great friends. Amber hunts in her lot and on the farm most often, though occasionally branches off elsewhere. She uses the pelts of animals she’s hunted, Twoleg cloths, and soft plants to make a nest. Because of the angle of the truck, she also uses Twoleg blankets to fill the bottom corner of the trailer so that she can walk.

Courtney and Brittany roam around, stopping in many places. Brittany scouts for places that are easy to get into such as hollows in rock faces, clearings with thick treetops sheltering them from the rain, and Twoleg gardens. Most recently, they have been staying with Kayla and Falcon in the barn. Brittany helps hunt while Courtney helps Kayla with the kits. They have been asked to stay as Kayla and Falcon enjoy their company and they’re good at what they do.

Cook is a rude, entitled kittypet who lives in the farmhouse on the farm with the barn. He never goes outside and is generally unpleasant and nasty.

Garnet lives in a cave in the rock face near Trick Court’s territory. They are often called upon to help settle disputes between the Courts as they have a unique perspective. Because of this, they are allowed to hunt where they please, although they prefer not to hunt in Court territory if they can help it. They attend Gatherings and sit with the medicine cats so that they can help with any disagreements. They know all the tunnels, cracks, crevasses, and ledges of the rocks and cliffs they live on and they can read the skies and predict the weather.

*An emoji denotes a non-platonic relationship– cats with the same emoji (or symbol in other allegiances) are in a relationship.

**A jack is a non-binary cat in the same way a male cat is a tom and a female is a molly

#butterfly heart #warrior cats #warriors #warriors au #butterfly heart territory post #warrior cats au #butterfly heart lore post #butterfly heart allegiances post #butterfly heart character intro

[zombiesun]

might be too late for this but – top five places you’ve lived in or temporarily stayed at so far

not portland but specific places. the residental program that I worked at on the top of a mountain. I took the bus twenty minutes from my place to the base and then walked twenty minutes up the rest of the way. at midnight I would walk down and take the light rail to the city and my partner would walk from their apartment to meet me in the middle of the city so we could fall asleep together.

nogales. a border town in mexico where me and my team lived on the top of hill that overlooked the city and you saw the wall cut right through. we set up the food market every friday and painted the fences and they would make us food and the community director would drive us over the border in his truck to get a hair cut and guavas.

hidden villa. beautiful piece of forest in the middle of silcon valley. not necessarily the camp I worked at or the people who ran it. but there was a tree I would climb on my breaks to smoke weed and read mary oliver's devotions. at night you could walk for miles in any direction and it was so peaceful and quiet. I really liked sleeping under the stars every night.

the hostel I worked at in LA was not. the best place I ever lived in but there was something special about it sometimes. the people I met there were some of the best people that ever crossed my path. I liked the fact that I could get handed five joints before breakfast and that I could walk around the venice canals at night whenever I was feeling aimless.

weirdly. at home with my family right now. I left home when I was eighteen and came back for a couple of months at a time. but I've never felt more at home with them then I do now. I think that I'm going somewhere else this year pretty soon if everything pans out but. I think it's because I'm myself and they've mellowed out a lot about the implications of that. it's been nice.

#mailbox #thanks you for sending this joel I really needed to answer this :') #both to remind myself that I have a lot more life to live. then I have #but that the past is still beautiful! and the place you are right now is important too

[maryslouisv]

to speak or to die

part two: is there anything you do not know?

part 1, part 3, part 4, part 5

read on ao3! read on wattpad!

The more time I spent with Remus, the more confused I became. The few things he had revealed to me had not made any sense. 

Remus had continued to pry me open the following morning, either ignoring or not seeing how he had annoyed me. Maybe the way I would lose myself when he spoke had been why he irked me, why he continued to speak. He asked about me often, but very rarely spoke of himself. When I would ask about him or retort with a simple what about you, he would say something snarky or ignore me entirely. Usually, I would not have minded speaking of myself, but I felt odd being expected to share so much of myself when I knew so little about him. For reasons I did not know, I was able to recite his words back to Marlene and Lily perfectly, mocking him and his toyish way of speaking. 

Lily Evans was a beautiful girl with red hair, freckles all over, and adoring green eyes. She’d always been kind to me, despite my often absent mindedness towards her. She knew more than Marlene and I, but never more than Regulus. We met one of my first summers here; her being a girl from London who was visiting family. She comes every July, whether to see her family or to see Marlene and me, we never knew.

On his third day, he woke around five in the morning. The sun was barely peeking over the water. I had already been on the balcony, smoking my first cigarette of the day and reading yesterday’s paper. Remus’ hair was damp, and he still had a towel to dry off his face, but he joined me. Perfect, I thought, almost scoffing out loud.

“Can I borrow your lighter?” he asked me, pulling one of his cigarettes off our glass table. He leaned over, cig in his mouth, and I lit it for him, “I think I’m going to go for a swim. Fancy joining me?”

Smoking before a swim is slightly redundant. Counterproductive. 

I was hesitant, but I agreed to go to the poolside with him. I brought my notebook and jotted down ideas for ceramics and clay statues to make. He was the quietest he’d been thus far, and I can’t say I didn’t enjoy it; having company without feeling obligated to listen or even speak. He was able to gather that I was focused and wasn’t listening to his thoughts; maybe he did speak and I did not catch it. We walked into town later, bought pastries for breakfast, and came back to the villa where I took a shower. 

That afternoon, he was reading with his feet in the pool. Marlene and I were sitting at a picnic table under a shady tree-a place we called our spot- and we were sketching together. Lily had been painting in the shed. Marlene called him over to us two, maybe three times before he walked over. This is a nice spot, he said. I know, I responded. He sat with us, keeping a finger between the pages of his book. He was almost finished with it. 

Marlene asked him questions that I could’ve answered; about his film and where he was from. He answered her much easier than he had me, but maybe that was because it was all small talk. They got along well, Marlene giggled with him and they shared their plans for the coming months. 

Despite the amount Remus had confused and annoyed me, I had respected him. Given the experience I had with other people living in my house, he was kind to my parents, driven, and generally calm. He knew when he needed to show respect and when to help out, even on his cane-walking days. 

After leaving the picnic table, he went back into town and didn’t come back until dinnertime. 

“Where did you go?” I asked, half not expecting an answer.

“I needed to drop off some pages to the editor,” he said, picking at his food, “Then I decided to finish my book at the beach.” I nodded at him with a small smile, “Why? Did you miss me?”

He laughed until I looked at him, mouth flat. “No.” His eyes narrowed at me, jokingly, I think, and he continued eating his food. He was rather pretty with his blonde dreadlocks and dark skin. 

We went swimming together the next morning. He woke up before I did and asked Matilda to make us peach smoothies. I woke up to the cup on the floor beside the bathroom door. I heard him leave the bathroom when I got up to get it, so I walked through and knocked. 

“Yes?” he said, coming to the door.

“Thanks for the smoothie,” I said, smiling. “Do you want to go swimming?”

We swam for a few hours, and soon enough, Marlene and Lily joined us. Lily had only now met Remus face to face, despite having heard lots about him already. She and Marlene both liked him a lot, saying they liked his way of speaking. We all stayed in the ocean until Victoria came. 

“Marlene?” she asked, still in the sand, “Mum needs your help.”

“Who’s this?” Remus asked, coming out of the water with Marlene and me, gleaming.

“My sister, Victoria,” Marlene responded, shifting her attention to the younger girl, “Victoria, this is Remus. Play nice.”

“No.” Remus and I both chuckled. His laugh was rather sweet compared to the edge in his voice. “Marlene, come on! You’re taking too long.”

Marlene did not hurry. Actually, I’m almost positive she slowed down just to piss off her sister. Remus, Lily, Victoria, and I all watched her take an agonizingly long time to grab her towel, water bottle, and spare clothes. Eventually, Marlene left and we all decided to walk back to the field and eat lunch.  

Lily and Marlene both got along well with Remus. As his first week had drawn on, I did too. He talked his ear off some days, others he was quiet like a mouse. I both loved and hated that about him. Victoria also loved Remus, and they started to spend the mornings on the shore together. No one asked what they talked about or why a nineteen-year-old was spending his mornings with a ten-year-old; but Marlene was glad she had a friend, even if only for the summer. 

After he came in from the beach, he and I would smoke a cigarette on the patio and then go outside and start the day. He still pestered me from time to time, but the days became more bearable as he became more comfortable in our condo. On his cane-heavy days, we would go to the backyard and pick peaches for Matilda, or sit around working on our projects. On easier days, we would go swimming or on a walk into town. By the end of the first week, Marlene had insisted we brought him to the shed. I was hesitant; none of our other summer guests had been so easily welcomed into the shed, only one other guest, Fabian Prewett, was allowed in at all. Remus appreciated it, but I think he could tell I didn’t love him being in there, so he almost only came in when he needed our attention.

“I think your ceramics are beautiful,” he said one day as I pulled them out of the kiln. This was the first time he made a clear-stated opinion about me. I turned and saw him admiring the fresh pottery, a small smile on his face. He reached out to touch them. 

“Don’t do that,” I said, reaching out. His fingertips brushed the back of my hand and I pulled back. “They just came out of the kiln, you can touch them once they’ve cooled. Give them an hour or so.” 

Remus nodded and pointed one out, “What’s this one?” 

He was pointing to one of the favorites I had at the time, “That’s inspired by Athena.”

“Oh, I see. That makes sense,” he said, reaching back for it again, but going back only a centimeter before accidentally touching it. “Is that- an owl mask? I won’t lie to you, James, that’s what’s throwing me off.”

The way he said my name was nice. 

“Usually, Athena has an owl somewhere on her arm or around her. The owl represents wisdom- which is common- but it also is considered her sacred animal. I think of the owl as a shield or protection. Not for war. From other people. Obviously, she's a goddess, so she wouldn’t need to hide her face in that sense, but I like to think her godly children might. Sometimes, plain old humans need to have a safety blanket just to feel alright.”

Remus understood. Maybe even too well. He asked me about a few other pieces as they came out of the furnace, and he complimented my handiwork once they were cool enough to the touch. 

This time, I was okay to talk. My art was not something I disliked speaking about. Art, in general,  really. He listened, he put in his two cents. And he was on with his day. 

I don’t know what Remus did with his time when he left our property. Our city was small. We had a few important things; a store, bank, church, and of course the oceanfront. For anything entertaining, you would have to go to the town over or take a few trains to Milan. On the days he needed his cane, he still had some ability to ride bikes, but only to go into town. He used his cane more often than not. 

One evening, Marlene welcomed him into the shed. She liked him a lot, I was even growing a liking for him. Maybe he was running out of questions, but this night he was fairly quiet. Maybe he was catching that I was not paying him any regard. 

I believe I was paying him too much regard, truly. Maybe he realized that, too. He interested me, even when he gave me nothing but a blank canvas. 

“Remus, can I ask you why you have a cane? You seem awfully young to-”

“Marlene, that’s not appropriate.”

Marlene was always blunt. Yes, I was wondering why as well, but I accepted this wasn’t my business.

“It’s nerve damage,” he said, not looking up from the journal he was writing in. His locs fell across his face just right. “I have a disorder called Multiple sclerosis.”

Marlene asked more questions. He seemed to be an open book for her. Why was I the one who was locked away? Turns out his disorder (MS) causes his immune system to decay a protective covering around his nerves. It caused balance issues, and his nerves couldn’t send proper responses to the brain. I asked him how he could ride our bikes just fine. He told me, I really shouldn’t, I was really good before I started having problems. It never went away. 

Over the next few days, Victoria, Remus, and Marlene were getting along very well. I spent more time with Lily. She really was a kind girl, I noticed. But I also took note of the way her hands brisked my shoulders and the way she lingered on certain words. I was a kid, but not a child. 

Moreover, the friendship Remus and the Mckinnons were forming was beautiful. There were a few days throughout the summer that I woke up to find Victoria and Remus on our beachfront alone in the haze. Lily asked Remus about her once, and all he did was change the topic. They had a bond, and we quickly learned to leave that with them.

On his eighth day, Remus and I went on our now routine walk to the bakery at daybreak. We came home, ate, and went swimming in the lap pool before Marlene and Lily invited themselves into the art shed. We shared headphones that day, and he shamed me for not having any David Bowie CDs, and then let me borrow his. 

On the ninth, we were in town, waiting for the supermarket to open when he asked me, 

“Why are we here? Right now?”

“Because whatever dictates our lives is telling us we belong here at this moment. The supernova of our lives, Remus.” I didn't think about it. His question caught me off guard, but I knew this was my answer. Something in me, then and now, tells me we belonged in that spot, at that moment. 

I know that is not what he meant. I know that he meant why were we in that village as two teenagers, despite our yearning for something more. 

“Is there anything you don’t know?”

---

i do not give you or anyone else permission to translate, transfer, or copy my work in any way. it is already posted to two other platforms, that is enough.

#moonchaser #remus lupin #james potter #mary macdonald #lily evans #marlene mckinnon #regulus black #the potters #remus x james #remus lupin x james potter #james potter x remus lupin #cmbyn #cmbyn au #olive writes #call me by your name #muggle au #black remus lupin #disabled remus lupin #brown james potter #marauders #marauders fic #marauders era #harry potter #harry potter fic #posted on ao3 #lily evans x james potter #lily evans x mary macdonald #marlene mckinnon x dorcas meadowes

[publicdomainbooks]

XIII. HOW I FELL IN WITH THE CURATE.

After getting this sudden lesson in the power of terrestrial weapons, the Martians retreated to their original position upon Horsell Common; and in their haste, and encumbered with the debris of their smashed companion, they no doubt overlooked many such a stray and negligible victim as myself. Had they left their comrade and pushed on forthwith, there was nothing at that time between them and London but batteries of twelve-pounder guns, and they would certainly have reached the capital in advance of the tidings of their approach; as sudden, dreadful, and destructive their advent would have been as the earthquake that destroyed Lisbon a century ago.

But they were in no hurry. Cylinder followed cylinder on its interplanetary flight; every twenty-four hours brought them reinforcement. And meanwhile the military and naval authorities, now fully alive to the tremendous power of their antagonists, worked with furious energy. Every minute a fresh gun came into position until, before twilight, every copse, every row of suburban villas on the hilly slopes about Kingston and Richmond, masked an expectant black muzzle. And through the charred and desolated area—perhaps twenty square miles altogether—that encircled the Martian encampment on Horsell Common, through charred and ruined villages among the green trees, through the blackened and smoking arcades that had been but a day ago pine spinneys, crawled the devoted scouts with the heliographs that were presently to warn the gunners of the Martian approach. But the Martians now understood our command of artillery and the danger of human proximity, and not a man ventured within a mile of either cylinder, save at the price of his life.

It would seem that these giants spent the earlier part of the afternoon in going to and fro, transferring everything from the second and third cylinders—the second in Addlestone Golf Links and the third at Pyrford—to their original pit on Horsell Common. Over that, above the blackened heather and ruined buildings that stretched far and wide, stood one as sentinel, while the rest abandoned their vast fighting-machines and descended into the pit. They were hard at work there far into the night, and the towering pillar of dense green smoke that rose therefrom could be seen from the hills about Merrow, and even, it is said, from Banstead and Epsom Downs.

And while the Martians behind me were thus preparing for their next sally, and in front of me Humanity gathered for the battle, I made my way with infinite pains and labour from the fire and smoke of burning Weybridge towards London.

I saw an abandoned boat, very small and remote, drifting down-stream; and throwing off the most of my sodden clothes, I went after it, gained it, and so escaped out of that destruction. There were no oars in the boat, but I contrived to paddle, as well as my parboiled hands would allow, down the river towards Halliford and Walton, going very tediously and continually looking behind me, as you may well understand. I followed the river, because I considered that the water gave me my best chance of escape should these giants return.

The hot water from the Martian’s overthrow drifted downstream with me, so that for the best part of a mile I could see little of either bank. Once, however, I made out a string of black figures hurrying across the meadows from the direction of Weybridge. Halliford, it seemed, was deserted, and several of the houses facing the river were on fire. It was strange to see the place quite tranquil, quite desolate under the hot blue sky, with the smoke and little threads of flame going straight up into the heat of the afternoon. Never before had I seen houses burning without the accompaniment of an obstructive crowd. A little farther on the dry reeds up the bank were smoking and glowing, and a line of fire inland was marching steadily across a late field of hay.

For a long time I drifted, so painful and weary was I after the violence I had been through, and so intense the heat upon the water. Then my fears got the better of me again, and I resumed my paddling. The sun scorched my bare back. At last, as the bridge at Walton was coming into sight round the bend, my fever and faintness overcame my fears, and I landed on the Middlesex bank and lay down, deadly sick, amid the long grass. I suppose the time was then about four or five o’clock. I got up presently, walked perhaps half a mile without meeting a soul, and then lay down again in the shadow of a hedge. I seem to remember talking, wanderingly, to myself during that last spurt. I was also very thirsty, and bitterly regretful I had drunk no more water. It is a curious thing that I felt angry with my wife; I cannot account for it, but my impotent desire to reach Leatherhead worried me excessively.

I do not clearly remember the arrival of the curate, so that probably I dozed. I became aware of him as a seated figure in soot-smudged shirt sleeves, and with his upturned, clean-shaven face staring at a faint flickering that danced over the sky. The sky was what is called a mackerel sky—rows and rows of faint down-plumes of cloud, just tinted with the midsummer sunset.

I sat up, and at the rustle of my motion he looked at me quickly.

“Have you any water?” I asked abruptly.

He shook his head.

“You have been asking for water for the last hour,” he said.

For a moment we were silent, taking stock of each other. I dare say he found me a strange enough figure, naked, save for my water-soaked trousers and socks, scalded, and my face and shoulders blackened by the smoke. His face was a fair weakness, his chin retreated, and his hair lay in crisp, almost flaxen curls on his low forehead; his eyes were rather large, pale blue, and blankly staring. He spoke abruptly, looking vacantly away from me.

“What does it mean?” he said. “What do these things mean?”

I stared at him and made no answer.

He extended a thin white hand and spoke in almost a complaining tone.

“Why are these things permitted? What sins have we done? The morning service was over, I was walking through the roads to clear my brain for the afternoon, and then—fire, earthquake, death! As if it were Sodom and Gomorrah! All our work undone, all the work—— What are these Martians?”

“What are we?” I answered, clearing my throat.

He gripped his knees and turned to look at me again. For half a minute, perhaps, he stared silently.

“I was walking through the roads to clear my brain,” he said. “And suddenly—fire, earthquake, death!”

He relapsed into silence, with his chin now sunken almost to his knees.

Presently he began waving his hand.

“All the work—all the Sunday schools—What have we done—what has Weybridge done? Everything gone—everything destroyed. The church! We rebuilt it only three years ago. Gone! Swept out of existence! Why?”

Another pause, and he broke out again like one demented.

“The smoke of her burning goeth up for ever and ever!” he shouted.

His eyes flamed, and he pointed a lean finger in the direction of Weybridge.

By this time I was beginning to take his measure. The tremendous tragedy in which he had been involved—it was evident he was a fugitive from Weybridge—had driven him to the very verge of his reason.

“Are we far from Sunbury?” I said, in a matter-of-fact tone.

“What are we to do?” he asked. “Are these creatures everywhere? Has the earth been given over to them?”

“Are we far from Sunbury?”

“Only this morning I officiated at early celebration——”

“Things have changed,” I said, quietly. “You must keep your head. There is still hope.”

“Hope!”

“Yes. Plentiful hope—for all this destruction!”

I began to explain my view of our position. He listened at first, but as I went on the interest dawning in his eyes gave place to their former stare, and his regard wandered from me.

“This must be the beginning of the end,” he said, interrupting me. “The end! The great and terrible day of the Lord! When men shall call upon the mountains and the rocks to fall upon them and hide them—hide them from the face of Him that sitteth upon the throne!”

I began to understand the position. I ceased my laboured reasoning, struggled to my feet, and, standing over him, laid my hand on his shoulder.

“Be a man!” said I. “You are scared out of your wits! What good is religion if it collapses under calamity? Think of what earthquakes and floods, wars and volcanoes, have done before to men! Did you think God had exempted Weybridge? He is not an insurance agent.”

For a time he sat in blank silence.

“But how can we escape?” he asked, suddenly. “They are invulnerable, they are pitiless.”

“Neither the one nor, perhaps, the other,” I answered. “And the mightier they are the more sane and wary should we be. One of them was killed yonder not three hours ago.”

“Killed!” he said, staring about him. “How can God’s ministers be killed?”

“I saw it happen.” I proceeded to tell him. “We have chanced to come in for the thick of it,” said I, “and that is all.”

“What is that flicker in the sky?” he asked abruptly.

I told him it was the heliograph signalling—that it was the sign of human help and effort in the sky.

“We are in the midst of it,” I said, “quiet as it is. That flicker in the sky tells of the gathering storm. Yonder, I take it are the Martians, and Londonward, where those hills rise about Richmond and Kingston and the trees give cover, earthworks are being thrown up and guns are being placed. Presently the Martians will be coming this way again.”

And even as I spoke he sprang to his feet and stopped me by a gesture.

“Listen!” he said.

From beyond the low hills across the water came the dull resonance of distant guns and a remote weird crying. Then everything was still. A cockchafer came droning over the hedge and past us. High in the west the crescent moon hung faint and pale above the smoke of Weybridge and Shepperton and the hot, still splendour of the sunset.

“We had better follow this path,” I said, “northward.”

#war of the worlds #WWChapter

[emotionalsupportrp]

He heads back towards the villa and stops when he sees Muninn, smiling slightly as he approaches him.

“Hey, pal. Ya like the gift she got ya?” He asks. He opts to stay behind and smoke while he waits for her.

- 🔥

When we emerge from the trees half an hour later, it appears as though we’ve made up, if the hug that he gives me is anything to go by. My eyes are red and I smile sadly while hugging him back, but I pull away almost immediately, we don’t linger each other’s arms.

I spot Touya by the bird feeder, where Muninn is still having the time of his life. “Oh, hey.” I make my way over to them.

Zero stares after me for a minute before heading inside.

#dabi 🔥

[tilbageidanmark]

Movies I watched this Week # 150 (Year 3/Week 46):

We All Loved Each Other So Much, only my second by Ettore Scola (after 'A special day'), a sprawling saga of post-World War II Italian life and politics, dedicated to and with a cameo of Vittorio de Sica. Strangely episodic and focused on friendship and the cinema. At one point he's recreating the shooting of the Fontana di Trevi scene of La Dolce Vita, with both Fellini and Mastroianni re-playing themselves - very uncanny!

🍿

The four times is a wordless, award-winning slow-poem from 2010. Philosophically, it follows the Pythagorean notion about the four transmigrations of the soul, as exemplified in the lives of a human, an animal, a plant and a mineral. Visually, it follows a dying goatherd in a small southern Italian village, who mixes the dust from the local church floor with water to drink as medicine. Just as he dies, a baby goat is being born, then the story turns to a fir tree under which that lost goat had died, and finally into a pile of charcoal. The smoke from the burning coal turns into dust, which is what the old shepherd drank. It’s the cycle of life and death. It's a fragile and contemplative viewing, quiet and spiritual.

The trailer. 9/10.

🍿  

“Raise ravens, and they'll gouge your eyes out”…

Raise Ravens (Cría Cuervos) by renown Spanish director Carlos Saura. A mystical psychological drama about painful childhood memories. With the same little actress who starred in ‘The spirit of the beehive’. She watches her dying mother suffering in pain, fantasises about poisoning her father, relives her sad upbringing in a villa with an empty swimming pool in the back. That kind of story.

🍿

"Pi-Kan Pai!"

Another frequent re-watch: Best (?) modern romantic comedy, When Harry met Sally. Sweet Sally (Photo Above) and Woody Allen-lite Harry, the original obnoxious mansplainer, and "human affront to all women". How they fall in love in 12 short years. His deeply cynical misogyny is an unpleasant hindrance, but eventually even he changes, becomes softer, even nice.

With a shout-out to Mallomas, the American version of the Danish flødeboller (קרמבו). Still 10/10.

🍿

L’enfer (Torment), my 7th film by Claude Chabrol, a low-rent version of 'The Shining', about a husband who descends into madness. A paranoiac hotel owner starts suspecting that his wife is cheating on him, and his obsessive jealousy turns this whole story into an ugly, unpleasant trip. 3/10.

🍿

Wikipedia has a list of all movies with 100% score on Rotten Tomatoes and # 6 with the highest number of unanimous reviews (129) is Minding the gap, a 2018 Oscar nominee. The debut documentary from one Bing Liu is the tremendous chronicles of himself and his two blue-collar friends. Three young skaters from Rockford, IL, from their teens until much older and sadder, they look back at their disappointed, broken lives. Rockford, IL, a dying rust belt city with 100% empty streets. 9/10.

🍿

All inclusive, a lovely Danish comedy, made by an all-women team, about a 60-year-old mother and her two adult daughters on a Southern vacation to Malta. The one freewheeling daughter wants her mother to have some fun, so she pays a local bartender to flirt with her. My 3rd film with Danica Curcic. 6/10.

🍿

“Call me” X 2:

🍿 Call me Chihiro is a wistful feel-good slow-cinema fairy tale, about a 29-year-old free spirit in a small seaside Japanese town. She's a former sex worker but now she services as a cashier at a Bento shop. Kind and friendly to anyone she meets, she spreads good will to anyone who crosses her path. Always smiling, but nurturing a sad heart, it's a leisurely-told story that eventually meanders over 2 hours with heartfelt snippets of the various characters she touches, but with no resolutions. 7/10.

It made me realize how purely escapist are the all movies I watch. I am satisfied walking with her at sunset on the docks of this pretty, far away town.

🍿 Re-watch: Luca Guadagnino's sensuous Call Me by Your Name. Beautifully-shot, romantic love story of an upper-class Italian summer. Great acting by two hetero(?) players, and the irritating Jewish father.

You know what things... The incredible one-shot at the plaza.

🍿

Pull my daisy, an experimental "Beat Generation" movie, made by photographer Robert Frank in 1959. Written and narrated by Jack Kerouac, and featuring Allen Ginsburg, Gregory Corso and Delphine Seyrig (!), it's a jazzy, free-form poem with an improvisational Joycean flair. A bohemian group crash a party. Nice!

🍿

Apocalypse Clown, an absurdist apocalyptic Irish slapstick comedy about a troupe of washed out clowns, trying to find meaning after a freak solar flare wipes out electricity in the world. Silly and off-beat. 7/10.

The trailer.

🍿

3 by Mabel Normand, silent screen director and actress:

🍿 Mabel Norman was a major female director and star who collaborated with Mack Sennet, and directed Charlie Chaplin's first films.

Mabel's Strange Predicament was Chaplin's first film where he used the tramp persona and costume. It was 1914, and he was slightly less polished: It was obvious he was a drunk, a lecher, a big tipper, his make up had his mouth in a permanent frown. Her predicament was being locked out of her room wearing pajamas!

🍿 Caught in a Cabaret, another 1914 Chaplin 2-reeler. Here he's a waiter who fakes being the Prime Minister of Greenland. There's also a real giantess, maybe a 6'5 foot extra dancing in the background.

🍿 Mabel's Blunder is a gender-bender comedy, with a secretary being hit by both her boss and his father. This short was added to the National Film Registry.

🍿

Etgar Keret is an absurdist, postmodern Israeli poet. More that 100 of his existentialist plays were adapted to short international movies. I discovered him after reading a painful NYT essay ‘I Feel a Human Deterioration’ about the massacre in Gaza.

Wristcutters: A Love Story, based on a story of his, was a bizarre black-comedy experiment about the after-life station where people who had committed suicide find themselves. It opens with a tremendous surprising suicide, but all of its young actors are especially un-charismatic, the directing by some Croatian dude is distinctively mediocre, and even Tom Waits cannot save it. 4/10

🍿

David Cross's 2021 stand-up I'm from the future opens with a stark and powerful story, a woman’s journey to, and experience in, the gas chamber in Auschwitz. It's an angry, scathing criticism of right wing ideology, delivered remorselessly and without pity. 6/10.

🍿

Edgar Wright directed a fake trailer for a fictitious 1970’s exploitation horror film called Don’t. It was included in Tarantino & Rodriguez’s ‘Grindhouse’.

🍿

Oh, how I hated Scorsese’s cult comedy After Hours! The appalling, affected yuppy character, the typecasted Soho artists, the unfunny twists and turns of the journey to ‘get back home’. 1/10.

🍿  

(My complete movie list is here)

#movies

[brandonwayneb]

Did you guys know, if you call a Terror Dak Tal, Tall, america starts another round of excuses and lies, at premeditated mass genocide?

Brandon’s Advise is:

Bliss Church Batz

Blitz Power Beez

spirit travel.

Instant Villa.

Mother F**** Spirit Staffmark.

14 box house bodies and heads instant, villa spirit sky skin snake.

Twist Two Two, Smoke Thumbs

Ring Blade Helmet, Cross and Swastika Extreme Art Zenith Strike Zak Dak Tal Bat Storm Baby HomeRun, "Village" MINE. Lord Valentine

Men with V, Vanilla and Vampire jokes

male and female,

“Salad Bowl, Kale Kaleidoscope”

“Salad Bowl, Wine Celery”

World War Direct Murders,

Red Rum, blames directed at gingerbread Beijing clergyman sex empathic blood targets

escape goat techniques

to blame Mod Que, Modern Dumb

Mod Que, Mockingbird,

Mod Que, Queen

Mod Que, Quota Tablets Assassinations

Brandon’s advice again

Emo Goth Rainbow Cupid

Emo Goth Medieval Times Cups

Emo Goth Side Table Burn Ears “C”

“CR”

Clergy Strike

Brandon’s research exposed thousands of agents and mass murders in agents brutality and war crime’s agaisnt humanity

Brandon’s Advice,

KKK ghost jokes

Ghost Sip, Non Gossip Jokes

Murder “Sex In The City”

Rum, “Rumor”

Twine Tu Tu Oil

India turmeric orange

Orange Fanta Soda

Red Tom, Tom Tom Pilot Train

Brandon’s Advices,

Zero Church Bread Crums,

Zero Psy In Eye Pills, cover ups

Zero Agents to speak

Battle Gram Crackerjack Assassination “Vests”

Vast Energy.

Vasy Majority Of Citizens

Word “Zen”

Word “Zenith”

Word “Zen Tye” Twine Red Zips

Between 2, 2, and 4,

Samurai History Japan

Samurai Jewish Sim Bath HairCut

Assassinations, genocide and mutilation

Brandon’s advice,

War 24, america soil,

Free Public Citizens Response

“Zen” word Zenith Eternity

agents on premeditated murders to talk of “rum” “red gingerbread” and “zen tie asian japan sex”

as they deflect to animals “chickens, pigs, cows, ducks, geese, rats, and so on…”

as they deflect to foods

“salads, tomatoes” and false terrordak tal terrorism repeated cycles of past murders

Lies at “Free Bowl”

Lies at “Blood Marbles”

Agents engaged in the murders and premeditated murders of thousands.

Thousands,

not 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9+

not 10,20,30,40,50,60,70,80,90+

not 100,200,300,400,500,600,700,800,900+

thousands.

Brandon’s advice,

Pez Candy

Blood Rainbow Skittles

Red Jasper, Not Blue Cast Per

kkk gossip

within “white” backdoor war codes

in mass brutality club houses

“Roman Spa Bath House Tomato”

“Blood Mary”

“Blood Cherry”

Brandon’s Advice, in direct war

1) Knights Honor Only

2) orange orphanage details hot newspapers

3) Emo Gothic High Cup, Rainbow Cupid, CC captain pill cover ups

4) Dexter, Zen Soda sleeping hospital victims and genocide shark needle Lab Bot Nat Tea cover ups

Nit Nat,

Nitro, Nasa

Rainbow Blood Oil

“petroleum oil”

Pet Murder Languages

Groomed Victim Languages

Mass Premeditated mass “inoculation murder victims”

Nit Nat,

Nitroglycerin, Nasa

Rainbow Blood Oil

americas excuses at mass murder and genocide

Brandon’s advice,

meditate, spiritual medium,

and denounce honorless twats

Knight, KKK ghost specs.

Inspector Go Go Wowzers

Fan Tom, Spec Tree

spirit travel.

Instant Villa.

Mother F**** Spirit Staffmark.

14 box house bodies and heads instant, villa spirit sky skin snake.

Twist Two Two, Smoke Thumbs

Ring Blade Helmet, Cross and Swastika Extreme Art Zenith Strike Zak Dak Tal Bat Storm Baby HomeRun, "Village" MINE. Lord Valentine

Inspector Go Go Wowzers

Fan Tom, Spec Tree

Irish Red Snake Twine War Library

Tips. Passion Pits, Turn Sideways

Gay Knight and Gale

Kale kaleidoscope twist between 2,2 and 4 magic gas chambers

Red Jasper Pro Life 99%

All Lives 1% Pen Point God Zenith

Zero Cast Set Blue Part Reel

Zero Blooper Reel.

Lies Boo Tomato Joe Joe

Emo GotHIC Fruit Punch

Emo Gothic Rainbow Cupid

Candle Wick Ken High Red Kite Army

Brandon’s advices,

Watch Pez Candy

Neck Europe Sow

Rusty Scissors Peace Signs

Fat Gut, Gluten Free

Fat Belly, Church Chainsaw

Fat Ass, dead men raped to death

Saggy Nut Sack, Gas Chamber Sag

Brandon’s Advice

Emo Gothic Rainbow Cupid,

and zero tolerance war agaisnt “Zen” at mass murders “hot rum” and “animal fog arm asian sex ops”

Brandon’s advices

“ Pezz candy throat, séance, Toys “R” Us, Jewish Spin Top roof remote”

Brandon’s advice

Mass Red Spiders

Mass Red Deers

Mass Blood Ticks On Deers Ass

MeerKat, Market Shop war 24

america war crimes Citizens

#allah #god #war #news #public #gay #lgbtq #wicca #wiccan #spanish #hispanic #irish #ireland #india #indian #asia #asian #psy #cern #esp #zen #prayer #freedom #advice #citizen #visa #psymal #genocide #nazi #jewish

[dritabuffalo]

Tinderbox wolfchase mall

#Tinderbox wolfchase mall full

Seasons 52 was dedicated on February 15, 2010. Meanwhile, two new Streetscape restaurants had debuted. Penney, a charter 1967 anchor, pulled the proverbial plug on their WESTSHORE store in late 2020. The building was renovated and re-opened, as a Dick's Sporting Goods, April 25, 2014. On May 4, 2013, Saks Fifth Avenue at WESTSHORE PLAZA was shuttered. The WPG merged with the Glimcher Realty Trust in early 2015. Known as the Washington Prime Group, it assumed ownership of several of Simon's "Grade B" malls. Indiana's Simon Property Group created a spin-off Real Estate Investment Trust in May 2014.

#Tinderbox wolfchase mall full

In mid-2013, Glimcher established full ownership of the WESTSHORE property and relinquished its ownership interest in LLOYD CENTER. The region's second enclosed shopping center, GATEWAY MALL and WESTSHORE PLAZA. There were also freestanding "Penneys" and Firestone Car Care centers. Woolworth 5 & 10 and Pantry Pride supermarket. Juvenile Shoes / Villa Shops / Waldenbooks / Walgreen Drug (with luncheonette) / Wolf Brothers men's wear / Zales JewelersĮnveloping approximately 623,400 leasable square feet, WEST SHORE PLAZA housed thirty-eight stores, including Walgreen Drug, Piccadilly Cafeteria, an F.W. O'Neil Company Card Shop / Hollywood Travel, Incorporated / Jarman Shoes / Lawton's Jewelers / Lerner Shops ladies' wear / Marquis Cleaners & Laundry / Mary Jane Sportswear / Merle Norman Cosmetic Studio / Modern Beauty Salon / National Shirt Shops / Orange Bowl snack bar / Piccadilly Cafeteria / Poller's ladies' wear / Scot Ties / Singer Sewing Center / Size 5-7-9 Shops ladies' wear / Spencer Gifts / Tellone Barber Shop / The Second National Bank of Tampa / Thom McAn Shoes / U.S. Serchia, Optometrist / Fanny Farmer Candies / Firestone Car Care (outparcel) / Florida Shoe Service / George M. WOOLWORTH (with luncheonette) / PANTRY PRIDE supermarket / Baker's Shoes / Baron's of Tampa men's wear / Colony Shops ladies' wear / Doctor Louis F. PENNEY (with Beauty Salon, Colonial Coffee Shop and freestanding Auto Center) / F. MAAS BROTHERS (with Beauty Salon and Suncoast Restaurant) / J.C. WEST SHORE PLAZA SHOPPING CITY TENANTS 1967: It was originally a dumbell plan mall, with a small east side protrusion (which housed a Pantry Pride supermarket). Be sure to check out all our animal statues.In 1967, the shiny new WEST SHORE PLAZA encompassed approximately 623,400 leasable square feet and contained thirty-eight stores beneath its roof. You will find Ebony Visions, Painted Ponies, Wizard of Oz and Gone With the Wind collectibles, and Fairie Glen. Be sure to check out all our wildlife figurines. Brands include Willow Tree, Britto, Acme, Ninja Warriors & the kimmidoll collection, Just the Right Shoe, flasks, chess and backgammon sets. We have plenty for the smoker, but don't forget our gift lines. We also carry ashtrays, cigar carriers, tobacco pouches, cutters, travel humidors, humidification solutions and accessories, and more. We have many humidors available in all price ranges. We've got all your smoking accessories as well. To light your cigars, pipes and cigarettes, we carry Zippo, Xikar, and Lotus lighters. If you are looking for e-cigarettes and liquid nicotine, we have them as well! Be sure to check out our awesome selection of hookahs, shishas, hookah parts and accessories. We offer a wide range of bulk and tinned pipe tobaccos including English and Aromatic blends. With pipes starting around $21.95, there's something for everybody. Some brands include: Savinelli, Peterson, Ferndown, Ascorti, Caminetto, Maestro Beraldi, and Nording. We also have a large variety of pipes in stock. Call or e-mail us for availability and prices. Some of the brands we carry include Fuente, Opus X, CAO, La Gloria Cubana, Hoyo de Monterrey, Punch, Macanudo, Cohiba, Partagas, Acid, Padron, and Romeo & Julieta, just to name a few. The Tinder Box in Wolfchase Galleria has MOVED!Īt Tinder Box in Memphis (Lakeland) we have lots of cigars. Welcome to the Tinder Box in Memphis (Lakeland)!

#Tinderbox wolfchase mall

[wlinarch]

A collection of disparate yet entangled fragments.

A collection of disparate yet entangled fragments.

I want time to leave me alone, and protect the last reasonable thought from the ceaseless battering of the wind and the waves.

In this tiny world of his own, Bill indulges himself in the illusion of having escaped reality and the omnipresence of entropy. Though the islet degrades day by day, he meticulously keeps it in perfect condition, lulled by the persistent songs of nostalgia, the memory of a place, previously pristine, untouched by the smells of bazaars, the eyes of satellites, the bustle of crowds, the threat of decay, or the calls from minarets.

I’m not connected to the fungal Wifi

The Fairytale

“Forbidden” space at Murray’s: Terrace Room, whose dimensions have been made unknowable through arrangements of screens, walls, lights, mirrors, sounds, decoration. Smoke of Vesuvius hovers ominously over the Greco Roman idyll as a metaphor for the explosive quality of life in the Metropolis. Murray’s is to be “the storehouse for all that was beautiful in the World that the Romans knew, conquered and plundered.”

However, the form and purpose of the fairytale itself are deformed, reformed, and rendered formless. Stories entangle, weaving together fact and fiction, transforming lighthouses into palaces with the aid of gauze.

The centre of Murray’s “villa” is “an open court with a colonnade on each side” — an artificial open air garden, realised through the most advanced technical means: “The ceiling is decorated to represent a blue sky in which electric lights twinkle, while by an ingenious arrangement of optical apparatus, the effect of clouds sweeping over the Sky is produced….” The Clouds do not contain even [...] the material to form water.

The mirrors, projecting screens, complex illumination effects and the sounds of a concealed orchestra suggest an infinity of forbidden space beyond the accessible parts of the villa.

An Old Poster

Visit Istanbul in the summer of 2022!

Istanbul, a city divided in two by water, harbours countless historical, religious, gastronomical, and cultural delights. The city is known for its colourful bazaars permeated with wafts of imports: cane sugar, vanilla, tobacco, coffee, and the blended haze of spices.

One of the must-sees is the Maiden’s Tower, which offers a breathtaking 360 degree view from the heart of Istanbul. It houses a small museum and cafe and can be reached by ferry every 20 minutes.

Google Maps

Mehmet Turan

3 years ago

(Translated by Google) What’s wrong with this beautiful island? From the island itself, now, the nearer view is spoiled by loathsome machines. Thirty or forty years ago, it was a thriving place; but now, lying amid debris and overgrown vegetation, it is a desolate island indeed.

Its upper end is in ruins, overgrown with bushes. This is not early romanticism of ruins, but mockery at neglect. I definitely do not recommend.

Eşref Huluk

38 years ago

(Translated by Google) We went today. We said let's have a salep each. It looked like anything but salep. The fragrance is artificial, the taste is artificial. How can they sell it as salep when it is just sweet powder?

The Report

29/09/2022

The trees keep mutating into rhizomes. I keep trimming them into tree shapes. I walk to the next tree before the fungal hyphae get a chance to digest my leather boots. The mycelium keeps trying to entangle stories. Absolute rationality must be maintained!

I must not let the Palace decay.

“Changelessness is decay," advises the asp hiding in a nearby tree.

A paradox. There is no decay without a change for the worse.

"Changelessness is a change for the worse, Bill.”

The image of the pristine tower from 2022 nevertheless persisted, perhaps an idealisation of nostalgia. It seemed a lighthouse; but it was inside his brain—a flashing, bright green light that had seemed as close as a star to the moon.

The island was enveloped in a general air of mild decay. I rubbed my somewhat bulbous nose and feared how badly the flavour of decay was developing.

The ocean is particularly agitated tonight. It runs up, leaps with the aid of the full moon, and tries lick the base of the lighthouse. What charming ignorance! I laugh at the petty attempts of the ocean while the waves of ignorance gradually eat away the ground I stand on.

Loop

for (day = 0, day < infinity, day++) {

07:00 wash(face);

shave(face);

brush(teeth);

brush(hair);

08:00 //eat breakfast

while (dirtyDishes) {

wash dirtyDishes[-1];

dirtyDishes.pop();

}

09:00 sweep(island);

10:00 if (airQuality < fantabulous) {

spray(airFreshener);

}

if (electronicLights == off) {

fix(electronicLights);

}

11:00

12:00 //eat a sandwich

13:00 for (stone in stones){

polish(stone);

}

14:00 if (wall == chipped) {

repair(wall);

}

15:00 if (roofTiles < 2856) {

for(tile : roofTiles){

replace(tile);

}

16:00 sweep(island);

remove(mushrooms);

17:00

18:00 //eat dinner

19:00 while (dirtyDishes) {

wash dirtyDishes[-1];

dirtyDishes.pop();

}

20:00

21:00

22:00

23:00

}

An Encounter with the Mushroom

“The mushroom speaks,” I announce to my guests, before handing the fungus the mic.

“I am old, older than thought in your species, which is itself fifty times older than your history.” Interpretation failed, reason blushed, speech was silent.

The mushroom continued, “If you have seen Mother Earth’s harlequin costume, you have known Antiquity. It is gradually disappearing, becoming a white, virginal coat again, open fields where monotonous corn, disturbingly, occupies the space as far as the horizon, ugly and greenish. Language and monotheism homogenise the pagan tatter, technology tramples over the altars: the old gods of the byways destroyed, tenure and boundaries abolished.

Finally, after a long dramatic (or perhaps tentative) pause, the mushroom speaks of the “baroque evolutionary possibilities” of symbiosis, dwelling particularly on its affair with algae. From the entanglement, emerged the lichen, something that is neither fungus nor algae, but both at the same time.

Ponderings to Self:

Searching for absolute truth is like trying to disrobe a harlequin, who will never arrive at his last costume. He undresses infinitely. There are always more peacock marks, ocelli and tattoos. The state of things becomes tangled, mingled like thread, a long cable, a skein.

Its layers of harlequin costume peel under the blazing sun to reveal more pleats and wrinkles. Pale. Hairless. Raw.

I decided to trust myself, and to start over from the assumption that I didn’t know anything and neither did anyone else. I stopped talking for a long time, and only played music. The process of reclaiming my sanity was questionable, but it was my own.It slowly evolved into a practice of taking two spoonfuls of psilocybin mushroom laced honey every day until time and space melted away into flashes of mercury swirling around the periphery of my vision.I wanted to erase my mind and start over fresh, as a psychic. I decided to explore the world and learn things first hand. I rejected all second hand information, including all I had learned about geometry, philosophy, physics, calculus, anatomy, psychology, art, history, and music.

A Eulogy for Youth

Was he the victim of an illusion?

He never knew—never indeed, had any cause to know—that somewhat grotesque dread of mirrors, and polished metal surfaces, and still water, which came upon the young actor so early in his life, and was occasioned by the sudden decay of a beauty that had once, apparently, been so remarkable. It was with an almost cruel joy. He mustered up the courage, again, to  he clear and lucid eyes coming through the weathered face seemed so very touching.

But we never get back our youth. The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty, becomes sluggish.Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we had not the courage to yield to. Youth! Youth!

It represents a vast circulation. Plants grow and are eaten by animals. Animals eat and are eaten. Any organism that dies is incorporated into the cells of moulds, decay bacteria, and so on.

Silence surrounds the cenotaph: music, murmuring, shades of colour and scents. The harlequins dance before the unoccupied seats in an endlessly rising loop under the Istanbul sun.

“I see the wisdom of the illusion now.” The last veil is torn away.

And with that, Reason took its last breath.

[afmanagement]

Property maintenance annual maintenance contract

Property maintenance annual maintenance contract

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Annual property maintenance contracts can be an important part of ensuring your home remains in good condition. Not only do they help to keep your property looking its best, they can also help to avoid costly repairs and replacements down the road. Make sure you understand the benefits of having an annual maintenance contract before you sign one.

facility management contract

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Sterilization services in abu dhabi

Abu Dhabi is a city of contrasts, with modern skyscrapers juxtaposed against centuries-old architecture. And while the city is famed for its luxury properties, it's also home to many residents who are struggling to keep up with property maintenance and repair costs.

One way to reduce these costs is to have your property sterilized on an annual basis. This service not only eliminates the need for regular cleaning, but also helps to prevent pesky insects from establishing themselves in your home. Not only will this save you money on repairs and replacements, but it will also help keep your property looking its best.

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In order to keep your property in pristine condition, it is important to schedule regular property maintenance. One of the most important aspects of property maintenance is disinfection. By regularly disinfecting your property, you will help keep the area free of harmful bacteria and fungus.

One way to ensure that your property is disinfected is to have an annual maintenance contract in place with a reputable company. These contracts typically include scheduled visits by the company’s employees to clean and disinfect all areas of the property. By having a contract in place, you can be sure that your home is kept clean and healthy all year round!

Villa maintenance

If you're looking for someone to take care of your villa's annual maintenance for you, you may want to consider signing a contract with a property maintenance company. This type of agreement includes specific tasks that need to be completed each year, such as cleaning the pool and gardens, repairing any cracks or damage, and checking the smoke detectors. Many companies also offer additional services, such as pest control, painting, and landscaping. Make sure to compare prices and reviews before choosing a provider; there are many good ones out there.

Annual maintenance contract

Every business owner should have an annual maintenance contract in place to ensure that their property is maintained in the best possible condition. This document outlines the specific tasks that will need to be completed each year, and is a valuable tool for keeping your property in top condition.

If you don't have an annual maintenance contract in place, now is the time to create one. Not only will this document help you keep your property in good condition, but it can also save you money down the road. By having a contract in place, you can avoid costly repairs or replacements later on.

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